


We're Anchored Alone

by callmejude



Series: Summer Offerings [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Crush, Baby Jon Snow, Bar Room Brawl, Begging, Brothels, Canon-Typical Age of Consent, Daddy Issues, Drunkenness, Emotional Baggage, Enthusiastic Consent, Family Drama, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Masturbation, Miscommunication, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Panic Attacks, Possibly Unrequited Love, Pre-Series, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Risk Kink, Snowball Fight, Unfortunate Implications, Virginity Kink, Voyeurism, autassassinophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-05-17 15:46:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14835203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmejude/pseuds/callmejude
Summary: No one really pays Jon Snow much attention. But sometimes, when no one else is looking, Theon does.





	1. Prologue

It’s snowing in the godswood when Jon huddles under the weirwood tree for the safety and privacy to cry. Lady Catelyn had shouted at him for nearly dropping the new baby Arya, and his father wasn’t around to keep her head about her. She did not hit him, of course — she never touches Jon at all — but he still ran. She will not find him here. These are not her gods. Even at nine years old, Jon has noticed she does not set foot in these woods without her husband. 

He’s hiccuping the last of his tears back when he hears the crunch of snow under boots behind him. He thinks, for a moment, it’s his father come to find him, but when he turns around, it is only Theon Greyjoy, frowning at him and shaking snow from his hair the instant he pulls down his hood to get a look at him.

“There you are, Snow. What’re you doing? Your lord father is looking for you.” 

Not hard enough, it seems. Jon doesn’t answer. He sniffles and wipes a gloved hand over his face.

“What’s the matter with you?” 

Theon Greyjoy does not care much for Jon Snow. It’s not a secret. He dotes on Robb and little Sansa, as much as any thirteen-year-old boy deigns to dote on children, but he has never taken to his lord’s bastard son. No one has. Jon bites the inside of his lip to keep tears from welling in his eyes again. Even when he was younger, crying in front of Theon resulted in nasty teasing. And now he’s even older. He would never hear the end of it.

Theon gets impatient waiting for an answer but Jon says nothing. Huffing, Theon stomps closer to where Jon crouches under the heart tree. 

“Lady Catelyn has taken to her solar,” he says. “You don’t have to be so afraid of her.”

It’s an easy thing for Theon to say. Lady Catelyn never even looks his way unless to ask a favor. Theon is not her child either, but he’s still the trueborn son and heir of a lord. Lady Catelyn has only ever treated Theon with respect, perhaps indifference, just like everyone else in Winterfell. Jon would gladly rather be the ward of his father’s house than what he is.

“C’mon, Snow, it’s bloody cold out here.”

“I was trying to be careful,” Jon mumbles, looking at his hands. “And I _didn’t_ drop her. She laughed like it was a game.”

“Fine,” Theon sighs. He doesn’t care. No one does. “Come along with me, then. You can tell your lord father all about it.”

“Arya has black hair like mine,” Jon says sullenly, not listening. “She looks more my kin than the others. I just wanted to —”

Theon rolls his eyes, his shoulders heaving with a full-body sigh. “Is that what this is? Wanted to get the newest Stark to love you before Lady Catelyn could turn her against you?” He’s smirking, like it’s a joke, but Jon feels it like blade in his ribs, and can no longer hold back his tears. 

Theon’s smile falls instantly. “Oh, come on, Snow —” he starts, but Jon only starts to sob louder.

“It’s not _fair,_ ” he cries helplessly, wiping the tears from his eyes before they can freeze on his face. “They all like you better, and I’m more their kin than you are. Even _Sansa_ likes you better.”

“Well I’d hope,” Theon says with a chuckle. “She’s meant to be my wife, in time.”

“Father says that’s not true,” Jon sniffles. 

Theon frowns, then shrugs. It doesn’t matter to him. Nothing does. That’s not fair, either.

“C’mon, Snow,” he says after a moment, reaching out for Jon’s hand. “At least come weep in the castle where the walls can keep us warm.”

Jon shoves at him, but Theon is stronger than him, planted sturdy in the snow, and Jon only trips himself, falling backward and landing on his backside. Theon laughs at him. There isn’t much more to do than scowl at him, but Theon only seems to find that funnier. Without thinking, Jon scoops up a handful of snow beside him and lobs it at Theon’s face.

Instantly, Theon’s laugh dies. The snow drips from his face a moment before he has the presence to shake it off him, and he looks so struck that Jon giggles.

“Oh, you little _wretch,_ ” Theon snarls, shoving Jon down so that his face plants into the snow.

The snow is soft and new, and when Jon surfaces, he’s still laughing. Theon glares at him, but he still has snow clinging to his hair, and looks about as threatening as a wet cat. Jon’s not sure he can recall ever laughing so hard. He laughs so long even Theon’s scowl softens, just a bit.

“Alright, you’ve had your fun,” Theon tells him. He’s not smiling, but his voice is. He grabs a handful of snow and drops it on Jon’s fuzzy mop of curls. It’s freezing, but doesn’t feel unpleasant. Jon shakes his head like a dog, and Theon smirks at him. “C’mon, before your lord father thinks we’ve been eaten by shadowcats.”

Jon takes Theon’s hand when he offers it to help him up, but doesn’t let go once he’s steady on his feet. Theon doesn’t seem to mind. He doesn’t pull his hand away until after he’s brought him back to the gates of the castle yard.

Even wearing gloves, Jon’s hand feels suddenly colder as he drops it to his side. He looks up at Theon and frowns. “I don’t want to.”

“Well, too bad, brat,” Theon says with a hint of fondness. He ruffles Jon’s hair, shaking the fresh flakes of snow from his curls. “I didn’t want to come traipsing out here in the snow to come get you, either.”

“I don’t belong in there, do I?” Jon asks grimly. “Not really. I’m not a Stark.” 

“Nor am I,” Theon says with a wink. “Still where I sleep, though, same as you.”

He doesn’t call it home for either of them, but for the first time, Jon doesn’t feel alone. At supper, he climbs up to sit beside Theon, and Theon allows it, though with the Starks around them, he pays him no attention at all. At first it stings, but as Jon watches Theon wink at serving girls, it’s the same wink he gave Jon at the gate, and it makes him feel warm. Jon lets it feel like a secret. He’s never had a secret, before.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s not more than a few days later that Jon sees Theon in the snowy yard, chatting with a stable boy around his own age. They’re both gawking at the nursemaid tending to little Arya, a slender pretty thing, fetching water from the well to bring to the nursery. The stable boy nudges Theon and mutters something under his breath, and Theon laughs so hard his head rolls back on his shoulders. 

It makes Jon smile, to see him laugh so hard, and he boldly wanders up to the two of them.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, curious, and Theon’s laugh dies instantly.

It isn’t like when Jon threw the snow at him. Theon is surely not happy to see him. When he looks down at Jon now, his eyes are genuinely cold. He spits back, “Aye, not much for the ears of babes, bastard.”

Jon frowns. “I’m nine. I’m not a babe.”

“Well you’re no man grown, either,” Theon huffs at him, shoving him away. “Get, I don’t want you crying to your lord father about the things you hear from us.”

The stable boy frowns at that, a nervous, unsure look. His voice quavers with apprehension when he speaks. “He might not trueborn, m’lord Greyjoy, but you may take care how you speak to the lord’s son.”

“You, mayhaps,” Theon tells the boy flippantly, that smirk on his face again. It’s darker now. Mean. Jon looks at his boots. “A highborn bastard is still a bastard, to a trueborn heir. There’s nothing the little brat can do to me.”

Theon had called him brat before, outside the castle gates, in the godswood. He had laughed then, and touched Jon’s hair. Jon’s not sure what’s different now, if he’s done something wrong. There’s a crunch of stale hay under boots as Theon leaves, starting off in the direction of Arya’s nursemaid. Jon starts to go after him, but thinks better of it, when he remembers the tone of his voice.

Jon wishes he knew what he’d done. When he looks back at the stable boy, he’s intently focused on his renewed sweeping.

For some time after that, Jon avoids being anywhere near Theon at all. Theon doesn’t seem to notice.

The thunderstorm rolls over Winterfell suddenly, in the middle of the night. It wakes Jon to the dark of his room with a loud, booming _crack,_ and an instant later, a searing, jagged line of white out his window splits the sky in half, blinding. In terror, Jon bolts from his bed and stumbles down the hall towards the heir’s chambers to find safety with Robb. His brother will not be afraid of thunder. Robb is honorable and brave, and it will make Jon brave to be near him.

But when Jon reaches the door, it’s already swung open, and Robb is gone. The furs on his unmade bed tossed awry in haste. The castle shakes with another _crash_ of thunder, and Jon feels tears well in his eyes. Even Robb is frightened, now. Gone to hide with his mother, most likely. There’s no hope for Jon to feel brave if even Robb has sought shelter elsewhere. Another flash of white light fills the room from outside, and Jon flinches. The room plunges back into darkness and the fork of lightning dies. He’s shivering, a coward. Shamefully, he wishes he were still young enough to be tucked into the nursery with a tenderhearted nursemaid to keep him company.

Another peal of thunder rocks the floor under Jon’s feet. Vision blurred from tears in the dim light of the hallway torches, Jon finds himself wandering further still from his own chambers. Theon’s door is still shut. He’s nearly grown and isn’t scared of thunderstorms. Jon should not be, either.

But he is, and it’s so loud, and he just doesn’t want to be alone. Lighting washes the corridor in cold white light once more, and Jon sinks his teeth into his bottom lip. Steeling himself, he pushes open Theon’s door and sees him laid out, sound asleep in his bed, despite the rain pounding on the roof. It must be an ironborn trait, to feel nothing in a storm like this. Despite himself, Jon smiles against the tears pricking in the corners of his eyes. He shuts the door behind him when another _boom_ of thunder makes him jump, and he darts over to Theon’s bed and tries to creep under his furs.

Theon jolts awake before Jon’s full weight is on the bed. “What’re you — Snow? What —?”

Humiliated, Jon hides his face in the down pillow. It feels suddenly ridiculous, to think being here would help. “I — can I sleep here?”

Theon squints at him. “Why in drowned fuck —?” He’s interrupted by the lighting slicing through the sky out his window, and Jon sees him roll his eyes in the bright light.

“Gods, Snow, you’re too old to be frightened of a storm.”

Jon shakes his head. “Robb — Robb got scared —”

“Aye, fine, fine. I don’t care.” He shuffles over, making room for Jon to slide in beside him. “Just shut up and get some sleep.”

Relieved, Jon curls up in Theon’s furs. Theon turns grumpily on his side, back turned to Jon. However, when the thunder shakes the castle again, Jon whimpers, and Theon rolls onto his back, arm stretched over Jon’s head.

“S’alright, Snow. Just rain.”

He doesn’t say anything else, but Jon scoots closer to him, curling up against Theon’s side. The wool tunic he’s worn to bed is warm from his skin, and Jon can feel the swell and sink of his lungs as he breathes. Theon doesn’t push him away, and within minutes Jon is lulled to sleep from Theon’s own snores.

In the morning, Jon wakes up alone, the door left open. Theon has morning chores to tend to. It makes Jon warm, knowing that Theon had let him sleep alone in his bed. He dallies before leaving for his own room, curling tight underneath the furs that smell like Theon.

He finds Theon later without meaning to, after midday, lazing in the pool of the godswood with little Arya’s nursemaid. She has her red hair tied back in a braid, and Theon’s hand on her shoulder. When Jon shuffles into the clearing, Theon glances over.

“You,” he says with a frown. “Why aren’t you at lessons with your half-brother?”

Robb has never once called Jon his half-brother. It’s only Theon and Lady Catelyn who insist on calling him that. Jon looks down at the water and shrugs. He can make out the vague outline of their bodies through the clear water, obscured by the thick steam rising from the surface of the pool. It makes Jon blush, and he meets Theon’s eyes again.

“I was… I was...” 

Raising his eyebrows, Theon finishes for him, “Creeping around naked girls in the shadows instead?”

Scowling at that, Jon huffs. Arya’s nursemaid giggles nervously and scoots closer to Theon. Theon turns to flash her a smile before looking back at Jon.

“Go on, get back to the castle. Ser Rodrik will be looking for you.”

“He’ll wonder where you’ve gone, too,” Jon pouts, “You have archery lessons, when Robb and I spar.”

“Aye, one lesson won’t mean anything,” Theon tells him snappishly. He skirts his hand over the water to splash it in Jon’s direction. It ripples with a weak threat at Jon’s feet. “Scram.”

“Oh, don’t be cruel, m’lord,” the nursemaid says with a tisk. 

Jon has a small surge of hope now that the girl has spoken for him, but it only seems to make Theon angrier that she’s said anything.

“What a useless thing to tell an ironborn,” he huffs at her. “Cruel lands breed cruel people. We have no use for scowling little boys frightened by women and thunder. If this little bastard were a Pyke he’d be long dead by now.”

“That’s not true,” Jon snaps, stamping his foot. “You’d not let me.”

Arya’s nursemaid coos, and Theon’s mouth tightens into a hard line. But Jon knows he wouldn’t let him die, not after he let him sleep in his room through the night.

“So sure of that, are you?” Theon snarls. 

In one fluid motion Theon reaches up to Jon and snatches the collar of his cloak, ripping downward until Jon topples into the water. His clothes are heavy and drag him down, and it takes effort for Jon to break the surface again, to Theon with his head reared back in laughter.

“M’lord, he could drown,” the nursemaid tuts, but she doesn’t seem so bothered now that Jon is paddling upright. “That wasn’t right, it’s so cold on the way back to the castle.”

“Aye,” Theon chuckles, glaring at Jon as if he said it. “Teach the little bastard a thing or two about intruding, will it not?”

Glaring, Jon hoists himself back up onto the shore of the spring, shivering when a gust of wind blows through his soaked furs and clothes, down to his skin. When he stands, he unhooks his cloak and hoists it at Theon’s face. It lands with a splat just short of him, and Jon feels tears in his eyes.

His teeth are chattering in his head, and he levels a wicked glare at Theon.

“Get going,” Theon tells him, “or you’ll freeze.”

He wouldn’t, Jon knows it. Theon wouldn’t let him. He stares back at him, shivering when the wind blows again.

“Oi, m’lord, I think he wants —”

“I know what the little bastard wants,” Theon interrupts, glaring. “He’s not getting it. Go back to the castle, Snow, or I’ll tell your father what a craven you were about the storm last night.”

Jon feels heat bloom at the back of his neck. Theon smirks at him and rears back his hand, aiming to splash at him again. Furious and humiliated, Jon storms off, arms wrapped tight around himself.

When the maester finds him dripping and shivering in the castle, he quickly starts him a bath, tisking and huffing the whole time. Away at last, Jon weeps in the tub, but when the maester asks what happened, he only says he fell. 

“It’ll be a miracle if you don’t fall ill,” maester Luwin tells him.

Jon disagrees. Perhaps if he were to fall ill, Theon would regret it. 

Though come morning Jon does not fall ill and Theon is content to ignore him. But when Jon retires to his chambers at the end of the day, the fur cloak he’d left behind in the springs is folded dry on his bed.


	3. Chapter 3

Winter fades at last with the birth of a new Stark child. The first buds are opening on the orchard trees the day he is born, his hair just as russet as Robb’s and Sansa’s and his eyes just as blue. Jon is not allowed to be in the same room as the newborn at all, and little two-year-old Arya is too young to join the family in Lady Catelyn’s room, and so she crawls happily into his lap where they sit on the floor outside. There are usually nursemaids about to mind the girls, or their septa, but every spare hand is being put to work washing linens or boiling water, so Jon occupies his curious little sister with games while the other siblings meet their new brother. 

Theon meets the two of them in the corridor, looking tired. Jon warms at the sight of him. He must’ve been pitching in with chores, since Lord Stark and so many servants are in Lady Catelyn’s birthing room with Maester Luwin. Even Robb is too busy tending to his new little brother to be about the castle.

“She shouldn’t still be awake,” Theon grumbles, motioning to Arya seated on Jon’s knee. Arya pouts and curls closer to Jon. She’s the only one in the castle who perhaps doesn’t prefer Lord Stark’s ward to the bastard. 

Theon scowls. “C’mon, little one. You’ll be a right terror in the morning if you don’t get enough sleep.”

“Here —” Jon stands and scoops Arya into his arms. She squeals and cuddles against him. “I can just… help you. I’ll carry her. Is that alright?”

Shrugging, Theon waves him off toward the nursery, but Jon stands there, unmoved.

“I don’t — know how,” he fibs. The back of his neck is hot from the lie. “Will you come with me?”

Theon snorts before leading the way to the nursery. “Some help you are, then.”

Arya tugs happily on Jon’s unkempt hair as he follows along, and Jon smiles at her. “I’m holding her, aren’t I?”

“Aye, well, don’t drop her,” Theon huffs. For an instant, Jon freezes, wondering if he remembers, but Theon doesn’t even look back at him. “It’ll be my neck on the execution block, if you do.”

Jon doesn’t believe that. Lady Catelyn has wanted Jon dead since he came to Winterfell but he’s still alive. Instead of arguing, he says, “Is the new baby alright? Healthy?”

“I suppose,” Theon says. “Haven’t been allowed in Lady Stark’s room since fetching the maester, but I assume there’d be more panic about the place, if he weren’t.”

That surprises Jon. “You aren’t allowed in, either?”

Theon does stop, then. “No, Snow, I’m not. Just family.” The word stings. It must show on his face, because Theon corrects with a tisk, “Just Starks.”

“But you’re always in charge of us,” Jon insists, bouncing Arya in his arms as they start walking again. “Always fetching Robb and I for meals and practice, making sure Sansa goes to lessons…”

Theon’s face darkens, and Jon falls silent. He hadn’t meant for that to upset him. He thought maybe Theon would be glad to hear it, that it would make him feel like part of the family. Jon has always considered him such, even if Theon doesn’t much seem to care for him. Sansa doesn’t like Jon either, but she’s still his sister, all the same. He looks down at Arya then, her little face so much like Father’s, like his own. When he looks up, Theon is fussing with the latch to the nursery. The serving girl who’d turned down the bassinet must’ve locked it when she left. All the nursemaids are helping wash linens for Lady Catelyn’s birthing bed. 

Jon looks at his face, careful and focused as he works the key in and swings the door open.

“You take care of us most, I’d say,” Jon ventures.

Theon scoffs. “Would you?”

Jon nods, grinning. Theon cocks his head. They’re quiet, for a moment, and then Arya fusses. She may like Jon best, but she never likes to be held for too long. Theon plucks her from Jon’s arms to tuck her into her bassinet, blowing out the candles left burning in the room. Jon watches his face fall to darkness.

As they leave, Jon’s stomach growls, loudly. Lady Catelyn has been in labour most of the day. With all the Starks in Lady Catelyn’s room, the cooks must’ve brought food to the family, but Jon was forgotten. Theon frowns at him.

“You never sneak into the kitchens, do you?”

Jon shakes his head. “I’m not allowed.”

“Aye, no one’s allowed, Snow,” Theon says with a roll of his eyes. “That’s why it’s sneaking. C’mon.”

Theon takes Jon’s wrist and leads him back toward the kitchens. Jon smiles, bouncing to keep up. Theon’s legs have grown much longer than his own, in the past few years. When Theon reaches the kitchen door he pokes his head in first to make sure the cooks are out of sight before pulling Jon in with him.

“Everyone’s busy about the baby, I’d expect,” Theon says. 

He snatches what’s left of a roast hen from the counter and starts at it with a knife. When he carves the remaining leg from the carcass, Jon expects him to bite into it, but instead he offers it to Jon, and takes leftover bits from the bird’s breast for himself. 

For a moment, Jon watches, consumed by the way his tongue pokes out to lick his fingers. “Theon?”

“Mm?” Theon doesn’t stop eating, but his eyes meet Jon’s.

“How come you’re only kind to me when no one’s around?”

Theon shrugs. “I’m not nice to anyone when someone else is watching,” he answers with a smirk.

Pouting, Jon looks down at the hen’s leg in his hand. He’s not sure if that’s true. Jon has seen Theon be nice to Robb plenty of times, and Lady Catelyn and his father, as well. But he supposes Theon has no choice, with them. It’s easy to forget. It kind of helps, knowing Theon has a choice with Jon, and still chooses to be nice, sometimes. As he eats, he watches Theon shuffle around to find jam and butter, and smiles as he spreads some on two slices of bread.

“There,” Theon says, handing Jon a slice as he finishes the chicken. “Not a feast, mayhaps, but going to bed hungry will just give you bad dreams.”

In bed that night, Jon dreams of snow, and Theon holding his hand. 

Theon is in charge of the children the next morning, Lady Catelyn and Lord Stark still resting with their new son. Jon wakes Arya and brings her to the family solar in an effort to help. He didn’t want to do it alone, the night before, but he likes proving he can, now. He should be more helpful, pitch in and do his part.

But the help doesn’t seem to matter much. Theon takes no notice of him, instead tossing a buttered crust of bread at Sansa when she elbows Robb for sitting too close to her. When she squeals at the butter hitting her dress, Theon smirks.

“Play nice, you two,” he instructs.

Jon sits beside Theon with little Arya on his lap, and even feeds her off his own plate, but Theon doesn’t even spare him a glance. Eating with his head down unless to bark orders at the little lord or lady. Jon tells himself he’d rather Theon not yell at him, but instead he’s jealous of Robb and Sansa for taking his attention.

Jon hopes to be thanked for his help with little Arya later, as Theon ushers them all to their lessons. But Theon doesn’t offer any praise, instead only turning on his heel and starting back for his chambers.


	4. Chapter 4

Three years into the summer, a party of Night’s Watch recruiters come to Winterfell on the road from the Wall. The warmer weather has made it harder to man the Wall, they say, and they’ll need more bodies than ever. Usually, Jon is not allowed to feast with the Starks. When northern lords come to visit, Lady Catelyn insists it would be an insult to have a bastard at their table like an equal. But the arrival of Night’s Watch recruiters are not worthy of such respects, apparently. The Night’s Watch is half bastard anyway, and Jon is allowed to sit at the far table, amongst the household guard stashed in the back like spare meat.

He doesn’t mind it as he did when he was a child. Feasts had been dull as a boy, duller without Robb to make mischief with. Now, nearly grown, being so hidden from Lady Catelyn and his father, no one notices when he takes extra servings of wine. It makes the night more bearable. His face is warm and his mind is foggy when he notices Theon leave his table with a serving girl’s hand in his own. Scowling, Jon looks to his father and Lady Catelyn, but no one else seems to have noticed them stealing off. 

No one pays him any attention either, when he stumbles to his feet and follows.

Theon hadn’t made it far. Jon finds him tucked into some shadows at the far end of the hall, pinning the giggling redheaded serving girl against the wall, mouthing at her neck.

“Lord Greyjoy,” she whispers, voice soft as snow, “we’ll get caught out here, m’lord.”

“Haven’t been yet,” Theon growls against her throat, but he grabs her arm and leads her away.

Jon follows her giggling echoing against the castle walls to Theon’s room, keeping enough distance so they do not spot him. What compels him to follow, he can not say. Only that something within him wants to see, wants to know, and the wine has made him immodest. 

Theon’s door is unlatched behind them, and it sits ajar just enough that Jon can peer into the chamber and still be hidden. Theon’s room is well lit, scattered with tall candles all along his hearth and mantle, and his window faces the full moon. Jon can see them both clearly, two figures lit by the flickering candle flames, as Theon tears at the laces of the girl’s boddice. 

The drink buzzes in Jon’s skin, heating his face, and he swallows.

As the skirts slip and fall from the girl’s body, Jon flinches and looks away. Girls aren’t meant to be seen in such a way. It is disrespectful to look. But then Theon laughs, low and heady, and Jon looks back up again, too curious not to.

The girl’s freckles sprinkle all the way down her body, dusting down her shoulders and back. The shape of her is warm, inviting. Soft curves of her chest and her hips. Theon appreciates her body, as well, running his hands up her arms, over her shoulders and then down her front, over her breasts. As she stumbles a little under Theon’s hands, Jon notices the hair between her legs matches the fiery curls on her head. There’s a hot little twitch at Jon’s navel as he watches, and he tilts his head to get a better look as Theon leans forward to close the distance between them.

He’s nibbling her neck in a way that looks like it should be uncomfortable, but the girl only giggles and cards her fine fingers through Theon’s hair. 

“Lord Greyjoy,” she says with a hint of a laugh in her own voice, “if it please you, I’d like a good look at you, as well.”

Feeling somehow caught, Jon inches back from the doorframe. Theon scoffs and pulls away from her, unclasping his doublet and letting it fall to the floor before tearing the tunic over his head Theon doesn’t have freckles or curves. His skin isn’t as pale as Jon’s, tanned more and more these days as the summer sun grows stronger, and glows warm and dewy in the yellow light of the candles. His chest and arms are broader than Jon’s own are, well-shaped and lean. Stronger. He’s always been much taller. The hot twitch pulls at Jon’s gut again, and Jon drops his gaze. For some reason, it feels disrespectful to leer at Theon, as well.

Still, as Theon shuffles out of his breeches, Jon’s eye traces up the line of his legs, lean and muscled, and at the cock hanging hard where they meet. It’s different from Jon’s. Embarrassed, Jon’s immediately aware of how much larger it is as the girl’s voice cuts through the warm silence.

“My,” she says with a coy little laugh, “the kitchen girls weren’t lying, after all.”

At that, Theon laughs. A sharp, warm sound that cuts into Jon’s stomach. 

“Aye, they’ve no reason to,” he says, grabbing the girl’s arm and pulling her against his chest. “Weren’t lying about its talents, either, if you were curious.”

“We’ll see about that, m’lord,” the girl purrs against Theon’s neck. “Show me.”

When she tugs him down, falling back onto Theon’s bed, Jon feels his heart thundering in his chest.

The girl is loud as Theon moves over her. Noisy, really. Moaning and writhing underneath him. Jon almost wants her to be quiet, worried, somehow, that her noises will somehow bring attention to him watching from the doorway. Theon doesn’t make much sound at all, just looking down at her intently, watching the girl twist and groan. He groans once, when the girl wraps her long, soft legs around him. He smiles and shifts them both — sitting up on his knees and hoisting her legs up around his waist, bowing over her. He looks so focused, sweat glistening on his temples.

Jon has never seen him look so fierce, his eyes so dark and his jaw tight. Holding the moaning redhead by her shivering hips and pushing into her. He leans in to kiss her, and Jon feels something hot roll up his spine when he drops one of the girl’s legs to snatch her wrist hard and pin it against his mattress. For an instant, Jon worries, but then the girl whimpers and tightens her legs around Theon’s waist, pulling him closer.

Face hot, Jon leans closer, trying to get a better look, but when his hand touches Theon’s heavy door, it creaks. 

The scullery maid beneath him doesn’t take notice of the sound, too lost in the pleasure squirming against the furs, but Theon’s head whips up, and Jon feels the blood leave his face in a rush. Their eyes lock, and Jon knows he’s been seen. For an instant, Theon freezes, and Jon’s heart is in his throat. He can’t move. He can’t breathe.

When time starts again, Theon only smirks, and gives him a wink.

It happens so quickly that Jon thinks he may have imagined it. Perhaps Theon hadn’t seen him at all. But Jon’s body heats up, and Theon starts to move again, rocking his hips harder than he had before. The girl mewls beneath him in response, breasts heaving with each breath. They’re both moaning now with each roll of their bodies, and Jon wonders — if just for a moment — that Theon is teasing him on purpose.

It makes Jon dizzy, to watch. He can’t look away, though he knows he should. He does not want to be caught, certainly not by the serving girl. Father would have him flogged in the yard. But they way they rock against each other is enticing, sweat-slicked skin glowing in the dimming firelight. Even from here, Jon can see the look on Theon’s face, eyes bright and his bottom lip caught between his teeth. His hair hangs damp in his face, and Jon finds himself wishing the girl would brush it from his eyes.

He would, he thinks offhandedly.

“Weren’t lying, were they?” Theon chuckles against the girl’s neck.

Shivering, the maid shakes her head. “N — no, m’lord.”

Jon is certain he imagines Theon raising his head, looking back at him again. Even if Theon _had_ seen him, he must’ve forgotten Jon is there by now. He watches Theon’s face closely for a moment, hoping to catch a sign that he’s still aware of Jon in the doorway, but then the girl is writhing. And Jon’s attention shifts. 

Suddenly, her breathing quickens. Her hands claw wildly at Theon’s back and shoulders. She whines, long and soft, and Theon smiles, still rocking his hips.

“Said as much.” 

His voice is tenser than it had been even a moment ago, and he starts to move faster, losing rhythm. Jon stares wide-eyed as Theon’s mouth falls open and his eyes finally slide shut. His whole body shudders, and Jon feels an echo of the movement rock through him, pouring warm down his spine and into his gut. When Theon slumps forward onto the bed, his strong back curved over the serving girl, Jon backs away from the door and starts for his own room. He feels warm all over, and can’t ignore any longer that he’s hard.

He goes straight to his room, latches his door shut behind him and sits back on his own furs. It feels dirty and perverted, but he is passed caring. He shouldn’t have watched, he knows. But it’s all he can think now. It’s all he wants to think on.

Shuffling his breeches from his hips, Jon lets himself be swept into it, just this once. He screws his eyes shut and tries to picture himself in Theon’s place, folded over the eager, swooning redhead, kissing down her long throat with his knees bracketed on either side of her creamy hips. He remembers the way she squirmed and moaned under the touch of confident hands. How she’d closed her eyes and wrapped her long legs around him, so trusting and inviting. She’d been so beautiful, soft freckled skin and curves he’d only ever heard about from bawdy stories he’d overheard from Theon.

But then, he’d never seen Theon in that state, either. Hair falling damp in his eyes, that self-assured smirk of his as he’d curled over her. The thought springs to his mind, those confident hands roving over Jon’s pale skin, instead. Would he be gentler with Jon, than he was with the serving girl? Perhaps, if no one else was looking. Theon is always kinder to him when no one is looking.

The thrill that rolls through Jon unbalances him. He gasps, and his eyes snap open. He’s seen Theon nude before, splashing around the godswood springs with his brother. It wasn’t new to see him that way. He’s never before seen a woman’s body before. Jon tries again to focus on the redheaded girl, but as he shuts his eyes, he pictures Theon bowed over him, green eyes bright as he holds Jon’s wrists pinned against his furs. Being taken like a woman on Theon’s bed. A groan falls from his mouth at the thought, even as he tries to shake it away. He thinks of soft red hair rolling through his fingers, of the girl’s helpless moans being his own name as she wraps her legs around his waist.

As Jon’s hand works over his cock, he remembers Theon’s playful little wink, and spends over his fingers.

The next day, Jon has trouble looking Theon in the eyes. He seems different, in the light of day. Taller than Jon remembers, shoulders broader, his smile wider. It makes Jon hot under his skin. It’s been a long while since he felt immature and young in Theon’s presence.

He wonders if Theon even remembers him standing there at all.

Ser Rodrik is in the yard with Robb and Theon, overseeing their archery lessons. They had begun training with longbows. Jon should be down there as well, but instead he hides up in the armory bridge, standing on his toes to lean his elbows over the tall wooden banister, watching them practice. Down in the yard Theon sinks three arrows in a tight cluster at the center of the target. He says something to Robb, quiet enough that Jon can’t hear, and Robb stands up straighter and lands his own arrow. It hits much closer to the center than his last attempt.

Jon wonders what he may have said, the tone of it. He told Jon once that he was never kind to anyone when someone else is looking, but he’s never cruel to Robb. Not like he is to Jon. Jon wonders, sometimes, if Theon thinks of Robb the same way Jon thinks of Theon. He watches Theon notch another arrow, but after he only stands there, frozen.

“If you’re that impressed, Snow,” he shouts without looking up, “you should see how easy I’ll strike you all the way up there, next.”

With a soft gasp, Jon falls back onto his heels. He hears Theon release his arrow with a quiet _snick_. He doesn’t need to see to know it’s no farther from the center than the others. He hears fussing then, most likely Robb scolding Theon the way he often does. No less embarrassing than Theon’s teasing. Scorned, Jon shuffles off the bridge and busies himself elsewhere, hoping Rodrik isn’t bothered by his absence.

Later, Robb asks why he wasn’t at archery lessons as he should have been. “Theon saw you up on the armoury walk,” he says with a playfully scolding tone. Catching Jon in a lie is uncommon, but he’s terrible enough at it that Robb always does, when he tries. “Why didn’t you just come down?”

Jon shrugs. “I wasn’t feeling well.”

“Why’d you come out to watch us, then?” Robb prods with a smirk.

It’s an alarmingly knowing face, and Jon stares blankly at him before shrugging again. He wonders suddenly if perhaps Theon mentioned Jon watching him the night before. Theon tells Robb everything. Robb must know. 

“I only wanted to see.”

He makes an excuse to retire to his chambers before Robb can push him to explain any further. He won’t be able to lie about what it was he wanted to see.

Robb doesn’t follow him. It must not matter. He leaves Jon be, after that. He must have at least believed that Jon felt ill, and instead keeps to Theon’s side. Theon is never cruel to Robb. Jon has never seen him even get angry with his brother. As young boys, they used to wrestle with each other, but it was never out of anything other than affection. Again, Jon wonders if perhaps Theon could like Robb’s company as something more than friendly. He couldn’t blame him. Even at fourteen, Robb is tall, already well into his growth spurt. He has a strong jaw and warm eyes, and when he smiles at Theon, it seems almost as if they have a secret. One like Jon’s, mayhaps — but together.

The idea does not repel him, though perhaps he wishes he did. Jon hasn’t grown much since his last nameday, still almost a full head shorter than Theon, with boyish cheeks and no hint of a beard on his jaw. While Robb has hair and skin like summer, Jon has the grim look of the North. He has his father’s pale, long face and dark unruly hair. He’s sure that to Theon, he still looks a child. Not like Robb. Robb looks every bit a young lord.

It would only make sense, for Theon to love him. Robb is good and gentle, bright and clever, and has a laugh that warms a room. By comparison Jon is dour and pitiful, a disagreeable brat. Jon can’t recall if he’s ever laughed in Theon’s presence since he was a boy. But Robb — Robb laughs often, especially at the things Theon says. Robb is everything Jon isn’t. Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, warm and loyal and strong. Jon hates him. He hates him for having a birthright, he hates him for having Lady Catelyn’s love. He hates him most for always making Theon laugh, for making Theon happy, for being his friend.

Jon tries not to dwell on it much, but the two of them are rarely apart. Sometimes Jon tries to creep between them, vying for attention from one or the other, but other times he merely watches from a distance, to see if he can tell what it’s like.

One morning, Jon spots them as he turns a corner. They’re standing close, though no one else is around to see. Jon stops, sees the look on Theon’s face that he’s sure he saw with the serving girl several moons ago. A knowing, confident smirk as he says something too low for Jon to hear from where he stands. Robb laughs, that warm, golden laugh. His hand is on Theon’s arm, leaning into him as he responds, and Jon is sure if he watches any longer he’ll see something he doesn’t want to see. He turns on his heel and disappears down the hall before either of them can spot him.

It only makes sense, that Theon loves Robb. It makes sense too, that Robb would love Theon back. It isn’t fair of Jon to hate his brother for simply having what Jon wants. Jon knows that. It’s no fault of Robb’s, how he was born or who he is. It is no fault of Robb’s, who he loves, or who loves him.

As much as he wants to, he cannot hate either of them.

But Robb can always tell when Jon is in a poor mood. Perhaps everyone can, despite Jon’s efforts to keep it to himself, but Robb always makes it his calling to intervene when Jon is sulky. It’s less than a fortnight since Jon had seen him with Theon when Robb swings open the door to his room at the break of dawn.

“Alright, Snow. Get dressed,” Robb tells him as Jon grumbles and pulls the furs over his head. “Let’s go into the godswood and build a fire like we used to.”

Grumpy, Jon pokes his head out from the pile of furs. What they did when they were young was build a fire and drink from stolen wineskins, pretending they were great explorers. Robb doesn’t mention any wineskins, but Jon suspects. Robb also doesn’t mention Theon. Perhaps he isn’t invited. He usually was, when they were young. Jon only seemed brought along as an afterthought, an obligation. But perhaps Theon is busy with chores. Perhaps that’s why Robb is seeking Jon’s company at all.

“Come on,” Robb says with a sigh, closing the distance to Jon’s bed. “You’ve been so miserable lately they’re all starting to think you’re ill. I had to stop Arya from waddling in here with an entire box full of worms.”

At that, Jon smiles. Arya loves to play in the mud, and often drags Jon to play in it with her, as he’s one of the few in the castle one who doesn’t outright refuse. She believes worms are the best present for everyone and a sure way to raise spirits — much to prim little Sansa’s distaste. 

“I hope you made sure she released them outside this time,” Jon says as he sits up from his bed. “Your mother wouldn’t be pleased to find them hiding in her chambers again.” 

With a laugh, Robb nods. “I managed best I could. Though she still gave a few of them to Hodor while he was standing outside.”

Hodor, like Jon, always appreciates the gesture of Arya’s gifts, though Jon has no clue what the simple man does with them. Sighing, he gets to his feet and starts to dress. 

“I guess an afternoon in the fresh air would do me some good,” he admits.

Robb beams at him.

They’ve already broken into the wineskins before starting the fire. Afternoons of the long summer are so warm that fire isn’t needed to stave off the chill until nightfall, and by then the two of them are tipsy enough that it takes several tries stack dry wood and spark the flint. 

When Robb finally manages, they both holler in excitement. Arms raised above his head in victory, Robb falls back onto the dewy grass with a happy sigh, and Jon drops down as well on the opposite side of the fire. For a moment, they simply lie in silence and sip from their wineskins.

Robb does most of the talking, as he often does. It comes so easy to him. Chattering on about nonsense Theon is doing or how Sansa is always asking him to play knights and princesses with her. When Sansa was very little, she used to ask Jon to play as well. She has since discovered that Jon is only her half-brother — not a true lordling — and has lost interest in his company.

She still appreciates Robb’s attention however, and Robb will still play with her, even if he’s getting a little old to. He’s a good brother, and every bit like the princes and knights Sansa hears about in the stories Old Nan tells her. Unlike little Arya, Sansa takes to the part of the lady with ease — a damsel swept off her feet by a brave knight or handsome prince. She would never play such games with the stable boys. They are not princes, and Sansa’s imagination has its limits, when picking company.

As Jon listens to Robb go on, his cheeks starting to pink from the wine, Jon’s mind starts to wander to what it would be like, if he had been allowed to play such games as a boy. What would have happened if he had ever asked Theon to play the part of the prince, and save him from tall towers or snarling monsters? Jon frowns at his wineskin before tipping it back into his mouth. He doesn’t want to be a lady. He doesn’t need to be rescued as a damsel would. At least he doesn’t think so. And what Robb would think, if he knew. Jon is already a bastard, Lady Catelyn already hates him for that. But her gods will hate him too, if he likes boys. Jon would hate to make Robb choose between him and his own mother.

“What’s the matter?” 

Robb’s voice cuts through Jon’s thoughts so suddenly that he jumps, looking up from his wineskin with a jolt.

“I — nothing,” he says hurriedly, holding the wine to his mouth again.

“You’re pouting again.”

“I am not.”

Even with his face rosy from wine, Robb still manages to look highly suspicious. “What’s got you in this mood, anyway? Nothing’s happened, has it?”

Jon shakes his head, but the alcohol has made his tongue loose, and the words slip from his mouth. “Would — would you hate me if something was… different? If I was wrong.”

Robb frowns. “How do you mean?”

The wine has also made Jon tender, and he swallows hard against a lump in his throat. “Would I still be your brother if I…” He can’t say it. He can’t tell Robb what it is. He can’t ask Robb to keep that secret from Theon. He can’t ask Robb to keep any secret at all. Finally, he settles on, “If I had a secret? A bad secret. One I shouldn’t — I shouldn’t…”

Robb squints in drunken puzzlement. His glazed eyes go wide, and his face suddenly crumples.

“You’ll always be my brother, Jon,” he says seriously. “No matter what you do, you’ll always be my brother.”

It’s not true, really, because Jon is only his half-brother, and the secret he’s keeping would shatter Robb’s heart, but the look on Robb’s drunk, pouting face is so open and honest that Jon feels the lump in his throat harden. His eyes water, touched, and he nods. 

“Whatever it is, Jon, you don’t have to hide in your room all day.” Jon looks back up, and Robb grins at him. “No secret’s so bad that I won’t love you.”

Jon nods again. He’s not quite sure he can believe Robb’s words, but he finds it matters enough that Robb does. He smiles.

Robb seems to know better than to ask what the secret is, and Jon is thankful for it. He’s not sure he could keep silent, if Robb tried to pry it out of him. But Robb doesn’t like to focus on whatever it is that makes Jon pout. He instead wants to talk about what a great brother he is, and that he’ll always love him. Before long, the fear — even the secret itself — is forgotten. The two of them laugh and talk around the campfire well into dusk, when Jory comes to find them and usher them back to the castle for dinner.

Once seated in the family solar, Robb sits next to Jon and reaches out to pat his leg. It’s such a simple, unconscious movement, and Jon has never before felt so relieved. Robb may not know what it is, but he may not need to. By the time Theon sits down at Robb’s other side, Jon is already smiling to himself.


	5. Chapter 5

On Jon’s sixteenth nameday, in the early afternoon, Theon announces that he went through the effort to get him a gift. At first, Jon thinks he’s only teasing him, but Theon even goes so far as to mention it in front of Robb at breakfast. Even Theon knows better than to be so cruel to Jon in front of Robb on his nameday. Jon feels a flutter in his chest and smiles. Robb even seems surprised, as if he had no part in it. Robb has given Jon presents on his nameday before, but never Theon.

Jon doesn’t ask until they are alone. “What have you gotten me?” 

“C’mon,” Theon says with a grin instead of answering, “I’ve had Hodor ready us some mounts to take to winter town.”

A thrill runs through Jon as he follows Theon down to the stables. Winter town with Theon? Robb isn’t even invited. He reaches for Theon’s hand, and Theon absently closes his fingers around his wrist. Jon’s skin feels warmer there than where the summer sun beats down on his face.

Together they lead their horses through the gate, leaving the castle largely unnoticed. They’ve only been riding a few minutes before Jon’s excitement is uncontainable, and the question bursts from his mouth, “Where are you taking me?”

“Aye, you’ll see,” Theon says in a sing-song tone. “We’ll be there soon enough.”

It isn’t soon enough for Jon. “What’s your gift to me?”

“Best nameday gift in all the North, I’d say,” Theon says with a laugh, looking back at Jon over his shoulder. 

Jon grins. Any present Theon would give him would be the best gift, to Jon.

They make it into winter town after midday, and by then Jon is so excited he’s nearly bouncing off his mount. Theon seems to find his excitement hilarious. Normally, Jon would find his teasing laughter embarrassing, but now it only rings through Jon’s blood. He’s still entirely uncertain as to why Theon would bring him into town, but for whatever reason that it is, Jon is happy to be here.

When Theon leads them past The Smoking Log, it occurs to Jon where they must be going. The brothel is the only place west of the inn. Nervousness churns with his excitement as it dawns on him, making him strangely giddy. He remembers, suddenly, the redheaded serving girl that Jon had watched Theon pin to the furs, and remembers the way he’d pictured himself over her later that night.

The blood drains from his face. He’s not sure what the expression on his face tells Theon, but he finally starts to talk now that Jon knows where they’re going. 

“I know you’ve not had a girl yet, Snow,” he begins, grinning over his shoulder at him. “No shame in it at your age, at least not yet. Just a little shy is all, I reckon.”

It’s true, so Jon nods, listening intently.

“A little confidence will help with all that. You’ve no need to pay for girls with a face like yours, though, once you know how.”

The compliment turns Jon pink, and he looks down at the withers of his horse. “ _You_ pay for girls.”

Theon laughs, loud enough that Jon feels it in his own chest, light and bubbling. “Aye, but I’ve no need to. Just prefer myself a seasoned woman, more often than not, and whores have no need for company, after.”

Seasoned. For some reason that twinges something, deep in Jon’s gut. “Is it that different?”

Surprisingly, Theon thinks on that for a moment, even after what he’d said. “It can be,” he answers.

Jon isn’t sure what that means.

Riding up to the brothel, Jon’s hands are shaking too hard to tie up his horse. Theon teases him as he does it for him and leads him inside.

Inside is tinged blue from all the long muslin curtains hung in the windows, blocking any view from the outside while still keeping the light. The air is thick with sweet, heavy smoke from thuribles hanging from the ceiling every few feet. Jon coughs as the scent of sandalwood sticks in his throat, and Theon chuckles.

“Breathe in through your mouth,” he tells him, bowing his head closer to Jon’s to keep his voice low. “Not so bad, that way.”

Jon does as he’s told, but the smell still gags him. Theon doesn’t hold his hand now, leading him through the winding little halls with a hand on his back. Jon wishes he could grab his hand. He’s starting to feel a tendril of panic twisting through his chest.

An older woman dressed in faded red silks stops them, and Theon mutters something to her. As he talks, his hand creeps up to Jon’s shoulder and squeezes. Jon looks up at him then, seeing the way the blue light from the windows cools the colour of his eyes. 

When Theon smirks at the woman, Jon frowns. That can’t be who Theon wants him to be with, can it? She’s nearly the age of Lady Catelyn.

But the woman doesn’t follow them when she waves them down another corridor. Somehow it’s both a relief and a panic, that Jon is still unsure who Theon means to give to him. He feels sweat slick his palms as Theon’s hand splays over his back again.

They stop at a door, and Jon realizes he can’t breathe. He’s not sure how Theon wants him to react, but he’s sure he’s reacting incorrectly. Heartbeat in his ears, Jon looks at his boots. 

He flinches a little when Theon tisks at him, and tries not to shiver when he feels hands on him. Theon’s fingers are long and graceful as they straighten his back and tip his chin up. He’d taken off his riding gloves, but his hands are still warm from the leather.

“You’ve no need to be nervous, Snow. You’re a man now,” Theon tells him, smirking. “Stand up straight, it does no good to be shy with whores. Ros will take good care of you, I promise.”

Ros. Jon knows that name. Ros is Theon’s favourite, he talks of her more than he talks of any of the girls he beds, even the ones he doesn’t pay. A great beauty, with tumbling waves of red hair. Jon’s heart leaps into his throat. He didn’t just buy Jon the pleasure of anyone. He bought Jon his favourite. Jon isn’t sure what she looks like, only knows that she is beautiful, and that she must know quite well what she is doing, because Theon always sings his praises of her.

“Theon —” 

His voice shudders, but it doesn’t matter. Theon isn’t listening. He’s squinting at him, pondering something. Jon’s heart jumps in his throat when Theon pushes his hair back from his eyes.

“Gods, but your hair is stupid. She won’t get a good look at you with all this.”

Jon pouts, feeling teased. “I didn’t think that’s what mattered.”

Theon laughs at that, and Jon’s heart thuds in his chest. Hesitantly, he smiles. Theon brushes nonexistent dust from Jon’s doublet. 

“I suppose that’s a good point,” he chuckles, “as long as you can see her that’s what matters.”

His hands are so strong, grabbing Jon by the shoulders and urging him toward the door. “Normally I’d grab a girl myself but, well — I doubt it’ll take too long.” Jon isn’t sure what that means, but Theon laughs like it’s a joke. It’s hard to focus on what he’s saying, with the way his hands are still on Jon’s back. “They don’t care for me loitering about if I’m not paying. I’ll be outside with the horses when you’re finished.”

For one wild moment, Jon panics. He digs his heels into the wooden floor and for a split second he wants to ask Theon not to leave. He can’t very well ask him to come along, but as Theon’s hands fall away from his back, Jon wishes he could.

“Wait,” he starts hoarsely.

“Don’t worry,” Theon tells him, misunderstanding, “I’ve paid her already. Just enjoy yourself.”

He ruffles Jon’s hair before he leaves. Jon shuts his eyes, standing in front of the large ironwood door. When he opens his eyes again, the door seems taller than it had before. Wider. It will be far too heavy for him to open.

Unsure of what to do, Jon knocks.

The door swings open so easily, and at first all he sees is a tall, beaming redheaded woman draped in a black mohair robe. The embroidered thread along her arms and hips shines gold from her window, and for an instant, Jon thinks she may be ironborn. It stirs something in Jon’s chest and makes him bite his tongue.

She _is_ beautiful. Even more beautiful than Jon expected. Her smile stuns him.

“My, there you are, lad,” Ros begins warmly, swinging the door wide open to expose her small, tidy room draped in silks and furs of all sorts of colours. “You’re even more handsome than Lord Greyjoy promised.”

It shakes him, that Theon would call him handsome, especially after he’d just mocked his hair. He’d said Jon wouldn’t need to pay for girls, but it seems different, that he’d tell someone else without Jon there. Jon feels heat crawl up the back of his neck when she laughs. He tugs awkwardly at the corner of his sleeve. He wants to know the kind of things Theon may have said to her, but it seems too obvious, to ask. He looks nervously at his feet again.

“How would you like it, m’lord?” Jon starts when Ros’s fingers brush through his hair. Her hands are softer than Theon’s were just a moment ago. “It’s your first, isn’t that right?”

Looking at his boots, Jon shrugs. “I’m not a lord.”

“You live in the biggest castle in the North, I’m told,” Ros says tenderly. “To a girl like me that’s lord enough.”

Jon scoffs, and a knot tightens in his throat. What else has Theon told her? He can’t ever seem to keep the name Snow from his mouth. She must know he’s a bastard. Does she know how Lady Catelyn torments him? How his father is Lord of Winterfell, the most honorable man in all seven kingdoms were it not for Jon’s existence? Does she know this isn’t his first time seeing a naked woman, but that she had long fiery hair too, and Theon seemed to like her just as much?

He wonders, suddenly, if Theon still wishes to marry Sansa, with her beautiful red hair like her mother’s. He’d mentioned it once, when Jon was a child. For some reason, the memory upsets him.

“Is everything alright, m’lord?”

“I’m not a lord,” Jon reminds her, his voice abruptly raw.

She doesn’t argue this time. She just nods with a soft sigh, like maybe she does know all the things Jon hopes she doesn’t, but then she smiles. “Alright then, what should I call you?”

Jon opens his mouth to say his name, but all that falls out is “Snow.”

When he looks up at her, she’s smiling that dazzling smile. “Alright, Snow,” she says gently. “What is it you’d like from me?”

It sounds strange from her mouth, spoken so carefully. Jon balks a little, but is too shy to change his mind. He swallows, and Theon’s voice rings in his ears. _It does no good to be shy with whores._ He clears his throat and tries to stand taller, remembering the way Theon had straightened his back. Ros is still taller than him, when he holds his chin high.

“Could you — could we start with kissing?” he asks with more confidence than he feels. “I’ve not… I’ve not done that either.”

Jon doesn’t feel mocked, when she giggles. It’s a sweet sound, gentle. Instead, it makes him feel as if he meant to make a joke. 

“Of course, darling.” She moves to the cabinet beside her door and piles her coppery hair off the back of her neck with a silver pin. “Would you like to get comfortable first, or do you want to start this way?”

He likes how much taller she stands than he does. He nods his head once and mumbles, “I’d — I’d like to stand.”

She grins at him and nods, taking his hands and placing them gently on her own shoulders. The mohair feels new and soft under Jon’s hands, and the question falls out of his mouth before he can stop it. “Is this a gift from — from Lord Greyjoy?”

It makes Ros laugh again, a quiet tinkling sound. “No, Snow, not from our Lord Greyjoy. He may seek me out frequently, and has never left a girl want for much, but as you may know, he is not one for gifts.” 

Jon’s not sure what his face does in response to that. She shouldn’t think he’d know that, not when she is a gift from him to Jon.

Before he can say anything, she asks, “Do the colours offend you?”

“No, I — I just thought…”

He doesn’t know what he thought. He trails off, and Ros smiles. She does not wait for him to finish.

“Shall I teach you how to kiss, then?” she asks warmly. “I know quite a few tricks.”

Sheepish, Jon nods, and Ros leans down and presses her mouth to his. Her eyes are closed, so Jon shuts his as well, but the instant he does he’s curious if he may miss something, and opens them again. She’s so close to him it’s hard to see much more than pale skin and fiery red hair, but Jon still wants to look. It’s only a press of lips for a moment before Ros sinks her teeth gently into Jon’s bottom lip. When he gasps, she tilts her head and slides her tongue into his mouth. 

Startled, Jon pulls away, but feels instantly foolish and closes the distance between them again. Ros giggles softly against his mouth. It’s strange, the feel of it. He’s not sure what he was expecting. Something different, maybe, something more than just the way their mouths felt against each other. In the songs there’s always more to it than that. All those stories Sansa loves.

The thought of Sansa pulls him back again. Ros’s hair is red as hers. Bright and flowing down her back. He wonders if his mother had red hair, same as Lady Catelyn.

“Is something the matter, Snow?” she asks gently.

Jon nods, trying to shake the thought from his head. “I — yes. No. I’m fine.”

Ros raises her eyebrows, but smiles. “Come sit down with me, Snow. I’d like to get comfortable, if you don’t mind.”

Jon doesn’t want to make her stand longer than she wants. He nods and lets himself be led to the large bed draped in silks and furs. How many times had Theon lain in this bed, Jon wonders. It makes his heart beat faster, to think of as he sits on it, and he swallows.

The bed takes up most of her chamber. Her wash basin is much smaller than Jon’s, and warm water doesn’t run from the walls of the whore house, so it sits empty. She must wait until after, to fill it. The window bathes the room in light, but he sees candles littered all over the room, taking most of the space of the shelves that isn’t occupied by little bottles of oil. She takes most of her customers after nightfall.

When Jon looks back at her, she’s still standing over the bed, but smiling, patient. “Are you alright?”

Jon nods.

“You’re a quiet thing, aren’t you?”

Jon looks at the hands in his lap. “I suppose.”

With a hushed laugh, Ros answers, “I don’t know why I expected different.”

Jon doesn’t know why, either. He wants to ask what Theon is like. If he’s talkative, or perhaps he doesn’t like to kiss. Jon had liked it, even if it isn’t like the songs. He looks back at her and tries his best to smile.

“Can we — can we kiss again?”

Ros tosses a fallen strand of hair from her eyes and smiles. “Of course, darling. Here — close your eyes this time, Snow, it’s not the same if you don’t.”

Frowning, Jon nods. He hadn’t known she could tell he was looking. He expects her to sit, but she doesn’t, instead standing in front of Jon, bending at the waist, leaning over him and taking his face in her hands. When she tilts his head back to kiss him deeper, something twitches at the base of Jon’s skull, and he whimpers. 

This, he likes. This almost feels like the songs. 

Her hands are so soft against his face. They trail up to his hair, nails running through his curls, and he likes that, sits up a little straighter against the kiss when he feels her sit beside him. She moves his hands for him again, this time onto her waist, and Jon feels a strange little twitch in his chest.

Under the mohair robe, he can feel the soft curve of Ros’s stomach, and his gut lurches. It’s flat and soft, but under his hands he can almost feel her belly swell as if with child. And what if he did? He could make another bastard, lying in these very furs and silks that Theon falls into time and again.

Lady Catelyn just had another, two moons prior. The little mop of hair on his tiny head is the same colour as Ros’s.

Too embarrassed to pull away again, Jon moves his hand, instead down to her hips. It helps to still the anxious twinge in his stomach, even as Ros lets out a little huff of a laugh against his mouth. It feels sweet, and pulls him back into the kiss.

Jon starts when she gets to her feet, but she only places a hand on his shoulder and smiles. “It’s alright, Snow,” she tells him. “I’m just getting us started, is all.”

Jon blinks as she drops the soft mohair robe from her shoulders, watching it puddle at her feet. She’s not freckled like the serving girl, but the hair between her legs is the same bright red. She’s gorgeous. Smooth white skin, soft and yielding, slim arms and firm breasts. He gawks outright. The room falls away around him. He can’t take his eyes off of her. Jon looks up at her swimming eyes, his heart picking up in his chest. He swallows, and she grins at him. The hand on Jon’s shoulder slides down his arm, and her nimble fingers lace with his own. Jon’s eyes fall from her face to look at their joined hands. It makes him dizzy, suddenly.

No one else has ever held his hand before.

“Now,” her voice is low, playful. “What is it you’d like, Snow?”

It’s too much at once, and Jon jumps to his feet. “I — I can’t —” he gasps, head spinning a little. “This — I can’t, I’m — I’m sorry, I —”

Curiosity paints Ros’s delicate features, and she reaches for him, slow and careful. “It’s alright, dear,” she says calmly, but when her hand touches his face, he jerks away.

“Hey now,” she says quietly, as if Jon is a spooked horse, “it’s alright, Snow. It’s alright.”

“I can’t,” Jon wheezes, eyes welling with tears. This is humiliating. He can’t breathe. “I — I have to get home. I can’t.”

“Darling, wait —”

Jon flees before she can finish.

Theon is leaning against the wall of the brothel when Jon bolts from the door, a half-eaten peach in his hand. When Jon flies past him, Theon reaches out and grabs his arm.

“Done already, Snow? Even quicker than I thought.” He’s laughing. This is all such a joke to him. 

Jon shakes his head, blinking back the threat of tears. “I can’t — I couldn’t —”

Taking in the sight of him, Theon’s smile falls. He stops chewing.

“I thought you liked redheads.” His voice is curious, and Jon feels an odd sort of weight drop in his stomach. There’s no reason he would think such a thing, unless he remembers being watched. It’s a dull ache in his chest, and Theon glances back at the brothel door. “I could get you another girl, if you wish, but Ros is the best whore from here to White Harbor, mark my words.”

The promise just twists in Jon’s gut. “I don’t want — I don’t _want —_ ”

Theon frowns and drops his hand. “What’s the matter with you?”

He sounds wounded, and that isn’t fair. He doesn’t have the right, not when Jon’s the one who’s so hurt. Jon’s heart is thudding in his chest. He covers his mouth with his hand and tries to breathe.

“Hey…” Theon squints at him, his hand awkwardly held out, just a breath from touching Jon’s hair. He smiles, easy and calm, but his voice is tense. “Hey, Snow, are you alright?”

He’d asked her to call him that. Why would he ask her to call him that?

“I can’t —” Jon manages finally. It starts to sink in, the rest of it. Everything he’d thought of when she’d first kissed him. “I couldn’t — I couldn’t do it. What if she — what if I made another bastard?”

The easy smile on Theon’s face flickers, just for a moment, and Jon instantly feels pitied. “The girls drink their moon tea after near every fuck, Snow. If not I’d have ‘round near a hundred bastards myself, by now.”

“You would _not,_ ” Jon snaps.

Theon blinks, startled. Jon’s not sure why he said it, why the idea of it upset him so much, and drops his gaze to his feet. For what feels like too long, neither of them speak. Finally, Theon swallows what’s left of the peach and tosses the pit into the grass with a sigh. 

“Gods be good, Snow, if you’re not going to fuck her, did you at least get my money back?”

Jon hadn’t even thought of that. He’d forgotten entirely that Theon was the one to pay for her. She was meant to be a nameday present. The first one Theon has ever given him. He’d been so happy to give her to him, and now Jon has ruined it. What has he done? Shaking his head, Jon looks at his feet. He can feel tears prickling at his eyes now, and wipes his arm over his face.

“I — I’m sorry,” he says, voice betraying him, wet and shaky. “I forgot, I —”

With a loud tisk, Theon looks back at the door, frowning. 

“Wait here, would you? Just wait, and I’ll be —” Jon doesn’t interrupt him, but Theon stops talking when he looks back at Jon’s face. Sighing, he rolls his eyes. “Alright, fine. Never mind it. I’ll take you home, c’mon.”

Theon is quiet on the ride back; sour-faced. Jon doesn’t think it’s very fair of him. Jon wouldn’t have minded, if he’d gone inside to get his coppers back.

Once back in Winterfell, Theon doesn’t even look at him. Robb meets the both of them in the courtyard, and startles when Theon stomps past him without so much as a glance.

“What —?” Robb falters.

Theon’s eyes roll as he heaves a massive sigh. “Your ungrateful wretch of a bastard brother would rather pitch a fit than thank me for my gift,” he snaps. He doesn’t stick around long enough for Robb to ask, so Robb instead looks curiously at Jon.

“What happened?”

Jon wonders how obvious it is, that he’s been crying. He doesn’t want Robb to know he cried, he looks down at his boots. “I — I didn’t mean to seem ungrateful.”

When he looks back up, Robb is glaring over his shoulder, back the way Theon had gone. He doesn’t often take Jon’s side against Theon — usually tries to appease both of them — but perhaps it’s different, on Jon’s nameday. 

“What’d he do to you?”

“Nothing. Don’t listen to him,” Jon whispers pitifully. He hates the way the answer feels heavy in his chest. “It — I just… she was beautiful, and I wanted to, but I — I couldn’t —”

“She?” Robb rolls his eyes with a groan. “Gods, he _didn’t._ ”

Jon shakes his head. He tries to think of a way to defend him that doesn’t make him sound like a maiden. “I — I had wanted… I wanted to, I did.”

For some reason, Robb just frowns at him. “Jon…” he sighs. “I’ll speak to him.”

“No — no, _don’t._ ” He couldn’t bear that, Robb ordering Theon to be kind to him, forcing him to be nice sounds far more pathetic than simply dealing with when he’s cruel. “I’ll… it’s alright, really.”

Robb isn’t fooled. Jon has never been a very good actor. “I’ll speak to him,” he says again.

If Robb does, Jon doesn’t know for certain. Theon avoids him like a leper for the rest of the day. When Robb sits beside Jon at supper, he expects Theon to sit on Robb’s other side as he always does, but instead he takes to the other end of the long table, loudly teasing the serving girl who fills his cup throughout the night. It’s never much of an event in the castle when it’s Jon’s nameday, especially not in the wake of a new trueborn Stark, but it doesn’t matter to Jon now. He’s not very hungry. Lady Catelyn at least allows him extra servings of wine, and with Theon so furious with him, it’s hard not to indulge.

Several times throughout dinner, Robb tries to talk to him about what happened, but Jon doesn’t care to speak of it until he’s downed his fourth cup, and even then, it’s too humiliating to go into much detail. Still, Robb listens to his fear of fathering a bastard with gentle eyes, and claps a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“He’s not mad at you in any way that will last, then,” Robb says with a smirk. “He’ll get back what he paid the girl in no time, you shouldn’t worry. And I told him not to torment you over it. Even Theon has the grace not to be horrible on your nameday.”

Jon’s vision swims. Is that why Theon has avoided him? He didn’t want Robb to think he was tormenting him on his nameday? Jon turns his head away, but Robb has already seen his tears.

“Oh, Jon, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean — I know you told me not to, but you seemed so upset.”

Shaking his head, Jon wipes at his eyes furiously. His skin is burning, and it’s hard to tell if it’s from drink or from embarrassment. He looks up to see Theon leaving the table and stands automatically to follow him.

“Excuse me, Stark,” he says, wobbling out from the table. “I’m just exhausted. I think I’ll retire.”

Robb nods and claps a hand gently on his back before dropping back onto his chair. 

Without a word, Jon follows after Theon down the corridor. Their chambers are near enough to the other for it to not seem out of the ordinary, but Jon has no intention of going to his own room. Theon doesn’t notice him as he stumbles after. Jon expects his gracelessness to give him away but Theon must’ve had enough to drink not to think much of any commotion Jon is causing. He catches up quick enough that he’s nearly within arm’s reach by the time they stop at Theon’s chambers.

As Theon turns to shut his door after himself, his eyes land on Jon just behind him, and he jumps.

“Gods, Snow,” Theon huffs, a hand to his chest. “You’re quiet as the dead. Why are you skulking after me instead of attending your own nameday celebration with your own family? What — what do you need?” The hall dips forward, and Theon smirks, when Jon stumbles up to meet him. “I won’t believe you if you say more wine. You look as if you’ve already had half a cask yourself.”

It isn’t funny, but Jon can’t help but laugh, feeling warmth burn down from his scalp at the little smirk on Theon’s face. The wine has made him bold, and he blurts without preamble, “I kissed her, you know. Your — your girl.”

Theon squints at him, frowning, before it dawns on him what Jon means. 

“Ros?” he asks after a moment. He smiles, then, and a wisp of pride curls in Jon’s stomach. “Well, that’s good news. Though unless it was a kiss worth a whole bloody silver stag, I’d better have her free next few times I’m in winter town.”

Jon blinks. He may not have heard him right. “You — _silver?_ ”

No wonder he’d been so bitter, when they left.

Theon isn’t looking at him any longer, walking away from his door to unclasp his doublet and fold it away. Jon follows dumbly into his room, eyes on the twists and movements of Theon’s body. Sweat tickles at the back of Jon’s neck. 

“Aye, just the one,” Theon answers without much thought. “First timers can be a bit tricky, sometimes. I’d wanted to make sure you were well taken care of, is all.”

When he turns to look back at Jon, he has that smirk back on his face. Warm and teasing, the same smirk he’d had when he caught Jon watching him with the serving girl. It makes Jon’s stomach twist, his vision swimming a little. He reaches for the wash basin by Theon’s door for balance, but misses and slams his shoulder into it instead. Theon chuckles, turning back to his cupboard with a roll of his eyes. 

“At any rate,” Theon continues as he shrugs his tunic from his shoulders, “it’s never a bad thing to tip the girls well.”

Jon nods, though he’s stopped listening. He watches Theon’s back shift in the low firelight of his room as he folds his clothes away. When Theon turns to face him again, Jon realizes his mouth is hanging open and snaps it shut, embarrassed.

“Is that all, then, Snow?” Theon asks with a little smile. “Letting me know you got a few coppers worth out of it, after all?”

“Theon...”

Swaying up onto the balls of his feet, Jon grabs hold of Theon’s elbow and tugs him down to meet his mouth. Their lips brush for just an instant, lighting Jon on fire from the inside, before Theon rips away.

“Gods, what are you —?”

Jon’s heart is pounding. He lets out a shuddering gasp as his hand closes around thin air, where Theon’s arm had been. Tears choke him, but he can’t force anything out of his mouth.

“Gods, Snow, how far gone _are_ you?” Theon wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His chest is heaving. “I told Robb to keep an eye on you. You always have — here, look at me.”

Jon can’t. Ashamed, he shakes his head. “I’m _sorry._ Gods, I’m a fool. I just — I — I’m sorry —”

“Snow, shut up.” Theon grabs Jon’s chin and pulls him up to look back at him. Theon’s eyes are gentle when Jon meets them; warm. He gives Jon a hesitant little smile, and Jon feels his heart rabbit-quick under his ribs. “Let’s just get you to bed, alright?”

He waits until Jon nods before he releases his chin and takes Jon’s hand. Jon feels fresh tears rolling down his cheeks as Theon leads him to his chambers. 

“She — she held my hand, too,” Jon whispers.

He regrets admitting it, instantly, because Theon lets go of him. 

“Alright, Snow,” Theon says, placing his hand lightly against Jon’s back instead. “It’s alright.”

“I’d wanted to,” Jon says finally. It’s not a lie. She had been beautiful, and kind, and Theon had gifted her to him. “Honest, I — I did. But she — she could’ve gotten… I could’ve gotten her —”

“You’ve said,” Theon mutters as he drags open Jon’s ironwood door. “It’s alright. Truly. I’ll get my money’s worth from her myself, in the end.”

Huffing, Jon stomps into his room, even when it makes his vision rock and sway. He wishes Theon hadn’t said that.

Theon helps Jon into his featherbed, but once Jon is seated on his furs, more tears well up. He grabs for Theon’s hand, but Theon pulls away, and Jon lets out a mournful hiccup.

“Drowned fuck, you’re worse than a girl, Snow.” Theon tisks, wetting a linen rag in the wash basin at Jon’s door. Jon doesn’t expect him to walk back to his side, and looks down at the furs draped over his lap until Theon takes a seat on the edge of his bed and grabs his chin. “C’mon, look at me. Just sit still. That’s it.” 

His eyes are so bright, the same blue-green as the ocean, and they make Jon feel lighter when they’re pinned on his face. Theon wipes away the tears from Jon’s cheeks with single-minded focus, his touch unexpectedly light and sweet. His teeth gnaw on his lip in concentration, and Jon feels his breath catch in his throat.

“What?”

Despite himself, the answer falls from Jon’s mouth. “I like it when you look at me.”

That makes Theon pause. His hand goes still on Jon’s face, and he sighs. 

“Gods,” he mumbles, dragging the linen under Jon’s eyes again. “I can only hope for your sake you don’t remember a moment of this, come morning.”

For some reason, it sounds like a threat. Jon doesn’t want to forget this. Not Theon being gentle with him. He shakes his head.

“Will you stay with me?”

Theon snorts. “Absolutely not.”

“Please,” Jon whines, reaching for Theon’s doublet, forgetting he’s not wearing one until he grasps at nothing. “Just — just until I fall asleep, it won’t —”

“You’re almost a man grown now, Snow. Even closer after tonight.” Theon’s voice is low, soft, as if afraid someone could overhear. “Can’t be tucked in bed with me like a boy with a nightmare any longer.”

It’s not fair of him to say it like that, as if Jon had went to him with every little fear. It had only been the once.

“It — it was a thunderstorm,” Jon remembers, sniffling, “not a nightmare. Robb had been scared, too.”

“Mm,” Theon responds dully. “They’re much rarer here than they are in the Islands.”

“Robb had — had gone to Father and Lady Catelyn’s chambers,” he whispers, voice tight, “I — I had nowhere else to go.”

“Alright, none of that,” Theon grumbles. He doesn’t use the rag this time, running his thumb under Jon’s eye. “You’ll have me here all night tending to your tears like a maiden.”

That’s not fair.

“Why are you doing this?” Jon snaps finally. “I can’t stand this. Why are you being kind to me now? You’ll only tease me and call me bastard, when the morning comes. Why won’t you just… be cruel to me or treat me kindly, I don’t care which, just — just _pick one._ ”

It’s a moment before Theon recovers, blinking owlishly at Jon for several heartbeats, before he smirks at him. “I think you _do_ care which, don’t you, Snow?”

Before Jon can answer, Theon leans forward and presses a kiss on the crown of his head.

Face on fire, Jon closes his eyes. When Theon shifts to stand, Jon grabs his wrist and holds him where he sits. “Wait.”

“Gods, what now?”

“I still — I want a present. It’s my nameday and you — promised me.”

“Aye, and I went through the work to get you one,” Theon grumbles, pulling his arm out of Jon’s hold. “Not my fault you didn’t like it.”

“No, please —” Jon feels threat of tears at the back of his throat again, and wonders if perhaps he should just allow himself to cry to garner Theon’s sympathy. “I just want — it won’t cost anything. Would you just — would you kiss me?”

He’s not sure what he expects from Theon once he manages to ask, but he certainly expects _something._ But nothing happens. Theon stares at him, face blank, and doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t move. Jon swallows hard around the lump rapidly growing in his throat.

“Please…”

At that, Theon flinches. He glances back to the door, and then sighs. “Is that the only thing it would take to stop your crying, Snow?”

Grinning, Jon nods. He sits up, crawling out from under the furs to sit up on his knees. He sniffs, and Theon tisks, running his thumb under Jon’s eyes again.

“You won’t remember this come morning, I reckon. You should come see me when you’ve not had half the wine stores in the castle and ask me then.”

“It won’t be my nameday any longer,” Jon pouts, inching closer to Theon. “You’ll only tell me no.”

Theon laughs, a quiet little huff that gusts against Jon’s face. “Aye,” he concedes, “I suppose that’s true.”

He’s nervous, Jon realizes. He’s never seen him look nervous before. His eyes keep flicking to the door, as if worried someone will come in and interrupt them. But no one ever comes to Jon’s room. No one except Theon. He places a hand on Theon’s knee. He means to calm him, but Theon goes rigid under his touch.

“Just a little one,” Jon assures him, “and I won’t cry any longer, I promise. Please.”

“Alright,” Theon huffs, “fine, but only because it’s your nameday. Bad luck to be so sad on your nameday. Though you’d not know it, seeing as you haven’t been else in all the years I’ve known you.” Jon’s face breaks into a smile, and Theon’s smirk falls away. “Gods, Snow, if you remember this in the harsh light of day, it’ll be my head.”

“It won’t,” Jon promises, nearly in Theon’s lap by now, “I promise, I — please.”

It’s only a split second, but Jon sees Theon’s eyes go soft, an instant before he shuts them. Jon shuts his too, because that’s what Ros told him to do, but he doesn’t want to. He wants to see what Theon looks like, when he’s kissing him.

At first, it’s just a gentle press of lips. Soft and warm and careful. Theon moves then, and Jon panics, thinking it’s to pull away, and latches a hand into Theon’s hair to hold him still. To his surprise, Theon gasps at that, a shiver following all the way to the base of Jon’s spine. The touch of Theon’s lips on his own burns down into Jon’s stomach, fluttering under his skin. It could just be the drink swirling in his blood, but this feels like the songs, he thinks. With a sigh, Theon pulls Jon into his lap by handfuls of his hair. It sparks along the back of Jon’s neck like lightning. Groaning, Jon melts into it, and Theon nips his bottom lip before sliding his tongue into his mouth.

Ros had done that, too. She must have taught Theon, as well.

The thought makes Jon heady. He holds onto Theon’s face, whimpering against his mouth. It’s like fire in his chest, sparking deep in his bones. Abruptly, the kiss isn’t enough, and Jon grinds into Theon’s lap, needy.

“ _Jon!_ ” Theon shoves him away, panting and red-faced. 

“I want — I want —” Theon is staring at him, eyes wide and mouth hanging slack, and Jon whimpers, trying to pull him back into the kiss. It wasn’t enough, but having nothing is worse. “I want it to be you. It should be you, who — who fucks me.”

“Gods, you — you _must_ be joking,” Theon grits through his teeth. He tries to push Jon off of him, but Jon digs his fingers hard into Theon’s arms. “Have some dignity, Snow. You may not be his heir, but your lord father would still —”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” Jon promises him in a rush. “I know you don’t — you don’t care for me, but… You can just have me the once — to say you — to say you did.”

Theon squints at him, mouth turned in a frown. “What?”

“Ironborn like that, don’t they?” Jon asks pitifully. He squirms a little in Theon’s lap, hoping it’s tantalizing. Heat pools in his own belly from the friction. “To — to be the first to take someone? I didn’t — I couldn’t, with the girl, but that just means you still — you still can.”

“Wh —” Theon goes abruptly pale. “Get _off_ of me.”

His voice is clipped and sharp, and his eyes have gone cold. He stands, shoving Jon to the floor when he doesn’t move quickly enough. Jon scrambles to his feet, but Theon is already slamming the door behind him.

Jon stands, abandoned in his room. He’s not sure what he’s done. For just an instant, it seemed as if Theon enjoyed the kiss almost as much as Jon did. But now Jon stands facing his door, face wet with tears. Theon had told him it was bad luck to be unhappy on his nameday, but Jon doesn’t know the difference, anyway. His luck simply won’t change.


	6. Chapter 6

Despite all of Theon’s wishing, Jon wakes up the next morning with a splitting headache, an ashy tounge, and clear memories. Miserable, he doesn’t get out of bed for hours after waking, pulling his furs over his head to block the blinding white sky outside the window. Usually, it’s Theon who retrieves him in the morning, but after hours there’s no one at his door. The castle stirs beyond his room, Jon can hear it, buzzing with movement and voices. When he begins to think that no one at all will come find him, Robb pushes open his door.

“Jon, are you alright?” he asks, his voice kind and lordly and entirely unaware of the things Jon has done. “You missed breakfast, and lessons will start in the yard soon.”

From under the furs, Jon groans.

“I tried to tell you not to drink so much,” Robb reminds him. To Jon’s horror, he can hear Robb pad gently into his room. “You can’t skip lessons for drinking. Ser Rodrik knows it was your nameday yesterday.”

Tears well in Jon’s eyes. He wipes them away furiously so that Robb doesn’t see as he’s hiding under all his wolfskins.

“Just go away,” he says, voice warbling.

“Alright,” Robb says, “but Theon’s busy this morning. It’ll be Father who comes for you next, and he won’t be pleased.”

Finally, Jon pokes his head out from the furs. “Busy with what?”

Robb just shrugs. “I don’t know. Haven’t seen him. He wasn’t at breakfast either. Father probably sent him on an errand in town.”

Theon doesn’t go on errands without a Stark along with him. He isn’t busy. He’s just gone. Probably to fuck a brothel girl or a tavern wench, to get the inexperienced taste of Jon off of his tongue. Jon pulls the furs over his head again. 

Misunderstanding, Robb tisks. “You don’t have to worry about him teasing you during lessons. He’s not even in the castle.”

Jon scoffs.

“I am sorry, about his… gift,” Robb says with a sigh. Jon’s heart stops in his throat. “It might not seem like it but he didn’t mean it as a slight. I don’t think Theon understands that not everyone is a letch like him.” Robb says it with a laugh, as if he finds it charming. As if perhaps Robb is a letch as well, and Theon bought him the same gift several moons ago, on his own nameday. It’s possible he did. Robb doesn’t tell Jon everything the way he tells it to Theon. “He was only trying to be kind, in his own way. I know it doesn’t seem it, but I don’t think he meant to upset you.”

It hurts worse, knowing even Robb thinks Jon’s reaction was childish. Jon _knows_ that Theon only meant to be kind, that he hadn’t meant to be cruel, despite everyone thinking he needs to be told. Theon was only trying to be a friend to him, and Jon may as well have spit in his face. Jon pokes his face back from under the wolfskins and sees Robb’s tender smile, and for a moment he thinks of telling him everything. Telling Robb that he doesn’t want a girl on Theon’s coin, he only wants Theon, and always has, he thinks.

But if Jon told him that, he’d have to tell him what happened between them in the night. That Jon — in true fashion of every bastard before him — tried to seduce a lord’s son. They’ll send him away for what he’s done, Lady Catelyn finally given her excuse. He’s dangerous, she’ll say, he can’t be around her own children. It would be off to the Wall in less than a fortnight.

By the time Jon drags himself out of bed, he expects Theon to be back from wherever he’d been, but he’s nowhere in the castle. Nervous, aching and unhappy, Jon is disarmed in every sparring drill with Robb, and doesn’t make a single arrow during archery lessons. 

Robb is sympathetic, and asks gently if he’d like to soak in the godswood springs, but Jon just wants to be alone. He pinches a wineskin from the maester and holes up in his room, reading histories for the rest of the day.

The next morning, Theon is still nowhere to be seen once Jon rouses. He asks Robb with as innocent a curiosity as he can muster, and Robb only shrugs.

“He was here for morning chores,” Robb tells him without looking up from his breakfast. “Dunno where he’s gone off to now.”

It doesn’t seem quite right that not even Robb knows where he is. Theon and Robb are usually attached at the hip. Stranger than the fact that they aren’t is Robb’s disinterest in his absence. Has he somehow found out, what Jon’s done? Is he protecting Theon from Jon, after learning what he’s done to their father’s ward? Keeping him safe in his room, or perhaps hidden away in winter town, where Jon will not find him? But if Robb truly knew, surely he wouldn’t speak to Jon at all. Robb is not good at lying, he is too much like his mother.

It’s days before Jon runs into Theon in the yard, and by then, Jon has stopped hoping to find him. He’s holding Rickon in his arms, surely looking to bring him to Lady Catelyn when Jon sees him. Abruptly, Jon stops. After so long, he takes a moment to realize it’s Theon in front of him at all. Jon only manages to watch for a moment before Theon spots him at the other end of the yard and turns around, shrugging the baby in his arms and carrying him away.

Jon finds him that way a few more times. He runs into him at dinner one night, as he’s running to take his helpings up to his room. Jon starts to follow him, but Theon’s door is locked by the time Jon reaches it. 

Another day, Theon is chatting with Robb near the stables, as they both collect mounts to go into the wood to hunt. When Jon starts toward them, Theon says something to Robb and mounts his horse, stabbing his heels into its sides before Jon can even call out to him. Robb doesn’t seem distressed by Theon’s sudden exit, but Jon can’t help but wonder if perhaps he was right, that maybe Robb is helping to keep Jon away.

It’s nearly a fortnight since Jon’s nameday that he actually manages to catch Theon off guard. He’d seen Theon start for the springs after his archery practice, and instead of going to his own lessons, Jon ducked out of the yard and followed after him. There is no door to lock, in the godswood.

It’s not common Theon is in the godswood springs alone. Usually he has Robb along with him after practice, or he’s snuck in some soft young thing from winter town. For a moment, hidden behind the trees, Jon watches him, lying stretched along the shallow end of the pool with his face tipped toward the sky and his eyes shut.

Quiet as he can, Jon creeps closer to the edge of the surrounding wood. He feels like a hunter stalking a rabbit, as if Theon will jump and bolt away. It’s been days since he’s managed to get even this close to his father’s ward, and he certainly hasn’t looked this calm in any of the glimpses Jon managed to catch. He doesn’t think Theon has looked this calm in all the years he’s known him. It feels intensely private, what Jon is seeing now.

Jon is greedy for the sight of him, and doesn’t manage long before he creeps too far past his cover, and Theon sits up like the crack of a whip, eyes wide when they land on Jon just behind a sapling tree.

“Gods be good, bastard,” Theon snarls, shaking water from his hair. “Can’t get a moment of peace anywhere, can I?”

Unable to answer for the lump in his throat, Jon just shakes his head. He stumbles forward, but Theon is already standing, shaking himself dry and grabbing for his clothes. His skin is slick and pink from the pool, and his cock hangs solid and obvious between his legs. Jon feels sweat slide down his nape. He blinks, trying to shake thoughts back into his head.

“Theon, wait —”

“Oh, wait, shall I?” Theon huffs, stomping into his breeches while his skin still shines wet. “Wouldn’t think you’d want to hang about with a bloody raper. Or am I only meant to wait until your brother catches me with you? Easier to have my head if there’s a witness, I suppose.”

Jon stares at him, gobsmacked. “I — what?”

Slipping his linen tunic over his head, Theon doesn’t bother with his doublet, snatching it off the ground and holding it limp in his hand. When he looks up, Jon expects his expression to be furious; dark and fiery as it often gets. Instead, Jon is met with hurt. It staggers him, and his mouth falls open.

“That’s — that’s not what happened,” Jon manages finally as Theon stomps past him. He grabs his wrist. “Theon —”

“Aye,” Theon snaps, shaking him off. At least he stops walking to turn on Jon, then. “I know it’s not. But you seemed plenty willing to assume it would because — why? Ironborn are all just fucking beasts? We take drunken boys weeping into our beds?”

Jon shakes his head. Theon has never cared before what Jon had thought of him, certainly never enough to assume he thought poorly.

“I — no, that’s not —” Theon doesn’t wait, storming toward the wood, but Jon grabs his arm again, harder this time. “Stop!”

He isn’t expecting Theon to do as he asks. When he turns back to face him, Jon takes a moment to realize he’s waiting for Jon to speak.

“Is that what you think?” he asks finally. His voice is softer than he wants it to be. “That I asked you to — because you’re ironborn?”

“Aye, it’s what you said. Never known you to be a liar, Snow,” Theon growls at him. He rips his arm out of Jon’s grip again and glares at him until Jon feels small and foolish as a babe. “Said it should be me to fuck you first ‘cause it’s the way ironborn like it. A pretty whore would be too much guilt on the shoulders of little Lord Snow, but an ironborn, aye, they’ll fuck anything, just to say they did.”

“That’s not what I said,” Jon argues, voice tight. Theon’s jaw is tense, his chest heaving. The rage is in his face now, turning his cheeks red and his eyes cold. Jon can barely stand to look at him, somehow feeling both furious and small. “I said I — I said that I wanted it to be you.”

Shock passes over Theon’s face an instant before his eyes harden. “That isn’t…” He laughs, quiet and bitter. “You don’t even realize what that means, do you?”

“I do,” Jon snaps. He pushes hard at Theon’s chest, but Theon doesn’t budge. “Stop treating me like I don’t —” A thought occurs to him, and Jon stops short. “Do you… Have you never done it? Are you as green as me, with boys?”

Theon’s eyes are cold as steel, and Jon sees him flex his hand, as if debating whether or not to punch Jon in the jaw. “I’m not green at anything,” he finally admits. “Done boys same as girls. It’s only Lady Stark’s gods who care about that sort of thing. Ironborn do as they please.”

“Old gods don’t mind it, either,” Jon says helplessly. “I like girls, too. I do. Honest. I just don’t — I like you, too.”

“Oh, aye, you’ve said,” Theon grumbles, not looking at Jon. He rolls his eyes, as if the idea is unbelievable, but he can’t truly think Jon is lying. Not when he boasts so much of the girls he lures into his chambers. It shouldn’t be unthinkable, that Jon had fallen for him too. “And you’ll father no bastards lying with me, isn’t that right?”

It isn’t why Jon wants him more than he wants a brothel girl, but it’s still true. Jon nods.

“The Others take you, Snow.”

“No, wait —”

Theon doesn’t turn around this time. 

“You stay away from me,” he shouts without looking back. Jon doesn’t listen, running to keep up. “If your brother catches word of why you’re in my shadow, I’ll lose my head before I’ve even a chance to lose his favor.”

Jon does stop at that. He’d assumed Theon would be the one to tell Robb what happened on his nameday. It never occurred to him that Theon would be afraid of what Jon would say of him.

For a long while, Jon stands in the godswood, unable to move. Why would Theon think Jon would say anything to anyone? What could Jon possibly say to make himself the victim in what happened?

The idea roils his stomach. Watching his feet as he walks, Jon finally starts back toward the castle. How could he have made Theon feel so unsafe? Why would he do that to him? What has he done? His heart pounds in his chest. It’s hard to catch his breath. Theon is afraid of him. Disgusted by him. Jon had been drunk and miserable and a complete imbecile and now he’s hurt the only other person in this castle who knows what it’s like to not belong. Theon will never speak to him again. Theon is too terrified to be alone with him at all. Jon feels sick. 

He can’t stay in Winterfell, if it’s causing Theon this much turmoil to be around him. He doesn’t want to, without Theon as an ally. He should confess to his father and brother of what he’s done, and accept due punishment for it. He’s borne witness to his father executing rapers before, but perhaps mercy will be granted on Jon, being his son. 

When Jon thinks on that, he realizes it’s doubtful. Father is not the kind of man to grant mercies simply because of blood. And anyway, Jon’s not sure he wants mercy. His father’s disappointment and rage would be so great, Jon doubts he’d even survive the shame. His father treats everyone as equals, but his bastard son attempting to defile a trueborn lord and heir would not be looked on well by anyone, certainly not those who keep the Seven. Jon will be executed for what he’s done. He could be sent to the Wall, where all crimes are forgiven, but such mercy seems unworthy for such a crime. Jon doesn’t deserve as much.

Perhaps Robb would plead for him. Theon is his closest friend, but Robb does consider Jon just as much a brother as Bran or the new baby Rickon. Jon shakes his head. It would only make the betrayal worse, really. Robb will hate him now. 

Tears in his eyes, Jon pictures the look on Robb’s face when Father tells him why Jon has to be executed. Lady Catelyn will be pleased to be rid of him, at least, but for what he’s done — even she will be ashamed to know the reason. And Theon, poor Theon. Jon has always known him to be so proud. What will this do to him?

Without realizing, Jon finds himself in front of Theon’s door. He stares down at the dim candlelight shining at his feet and considers what he could possibly say. He hesitates, wanting to hide in his room or run to the wine cellar, but he can’t back down now. This should happen as soon as possible. He shouldn’t torture Theon like this. Perhaps mercy will be granted after all, and he’ll just be sent North to never see him again. Perhaps that will be enough to help. But he can’t stay here. He knows he can’t. Not after harming Theon this way.

Steeling himself, Jon knocks.

When Theon opens the door, it’s clear he expects to see someone else. Robb, perhaps. Or maybe even his father. Whoever it is, Jon is shorter than them, and there is a moment where Theon stares straight over his head into empty air, before his eyes drift down to meet Jon’s.

“You.”

His gaze is withering, so angry that Jon takes a step back. When he was young he thought he knew what it meant to be scorned by Theon. Seeing him now, he knows what true disdain looks like. He’s a fool for ever thinking Theon’s teasing from before could have been hatred.

“I — I wanted to tell… I’m sorry. For what I did,” Jon stammers at the floor. “I — I’m sorry.”

Theon’s sour face does not change. He says nothing.

“I’m… I’m going to tell my father,” Jon continues. At that, Theon goes pale, but Jon forges on before he can interrupt, “In the morning, I’m going to tell him that I — I tried to… I tried to seduce you. That I touched you, that I tried to make you touch me. I’ll offer to go to the Wall for my crimes. Forgive me, I hadn’t meant to hurt you.”

Theon snorts then, but at least the colour is back in his face. “ _Hurt_ me? Don’t be such a woman, Snow.” He peeks his head out to look over Jon’s shoulder, down the dimly-lit corridor, and then steps aside with a sigh. “Get in.”

Jon does without a second thought, but the moment Theon latches the door behind him, Jon feels an excited panic grip his chest. The last time he was in Theon’s room was the night of his nameday. Immediately, Jon scorns himself. He feels disgusting, for what he’s done.

He doesn’t say anything, so Theon breaks the silence. “Have you gotten into the wine again?”

Jon shakes his head, glad now, that he hadn’t. Theon may think Jon would try again what he’d done on his nameday, if he showed up drunk at his door. 

Theon peers at him, perhaps disbelieving, but continues on, “Then what’re you on about? Speak sense.”

His voice lacks venom now, more annoyed than angry, but his face is still hard and pinched. Jon swallows, embarrassed by the tightness of his throat.

“The things I said — about you being ironborn,” Jon says softly. “I hadn’t meant it that way. I had only meant…” It doesn’t matter what he meant. “It was wrong of me to ask you such a thing. I’ll tell Robb and my father in the morning, and ride out to take the black as soon as I can, if that’s what’s decided.”

The anger in Theon’s eyes softens. For a long time, there’s just silence. Then, Theon sighs. “Don’t be stupid.”

Jon shakes his head. He’s resolved now. He has to do this. “What I did was… If you’d been a lady —”

“If I’d been _what?_ ” Theon’s face darkens at that, but when Jon flinches, the scowl fades again. “Snow, enough. You’re being an idiot.”

“I don’t know what else to do,” Jon admits finally, looking forlornly at his boots. “You won’t — you won’t forgive me. Won’t even listen to me.”

Jon is so focused on keeping his jaw locked tight against a sob that he almost misses the sigh Theon releases through his nose. When he looks up, the rage is gone entirely from Theon’s face. Instead, he looks weary. He’s never seemed so much older than Jon as he does now.

“You shouldn’t be in my room, Snow.”

Nodding miserably, Jon turns on his heel. Before he heaves the door open, Theon’s fingers lock around his wrist.

“And don’t… Don’t go to your father or your brother with this, alright? It’s — it’s not as easy as all that.”

His words take a moment to make sense, Jon’s eyes unwavering on Theon’s hand around his arm. It’s the first time Theon has touched him in days. It lights up something warm along his bones. It takes so long for him to answer that Theon lets him go.

“I don’t understand,” Jon says finally. “Won’t it be better? Without me here? Isn’t that what you want?”

“Snow, gods. It wasn’t —” Jon tilts his head, and Theon’s shoulders heave with defeat. “If you tell your brother and father why you’re taking the black, it won’t be _you_ that they want to send to the Wall. Do you understand?”

He doesn’t. Squinting, Jon shakes his head. It had been Jon’s fault. What other outcome there could be?

Theon rolls his eyes, as if it’s obvious. “You can’t be telling… Your father’d have my head if he caught word of me touching you, Snow. Whether you say you asked for it or not.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in. Jon shirks, chewing on his lip. “I… that’s not true.” 

Exasperated, Theon sighs. He doesn’t argue, but his silence speaks loud enough. 

Jon looks down at his feet. “I wouldn’t — you didn’t want…”

“Jon —”

“What can I do?” Jon whispers, voice raw. “You — you hate me.” Theon blanches, but Jon takes a step back, toward the door. “I can’t stay here. Not after what I did. What can I do to make it right?”

“Jon, it’s alright.” Theon moves forward, keeping their distance the same, his hands held out in front of him as if worried Jon might bolt away. “You didn’t make me do anything. It’s fine, what you did. But to your father or Robb… They can’t know. Alright?”

“But —” It’s strange, the idea of keeping a secret from Robb and his father. He can’t remember ever doing that before. “I didn’t — I didn’t force you?”

Surprisingly, Theon chuckles. “You couldn’t force me to do anything, Snow.” Before Jon can say anything, Theon’s smile falls. “But your father — if he learned of what we did, it… it would be my last night alive.”

It blazes along his skin, to hear. Now, it makes it sound as if Theon wants him, at least enough that he’s thought of what his father may do. “It wouldn’t,” he whispers, breathless. “Father wouldn’t care about — I’m not his heir. Not trueborn. I’m just — I’m just a bastard. It doesn’t matter, what happens to me.”

Theon laughs then, not the cruel sharp laugh Jon hears at his expense. Gentle and tender, a laugh he’s not heard leave Theon’s mouth before. His eyes are soft when he tucks Jon’s hair behind his ear, and for a moment Jon thinks Theon may kiss him. He props up on the balls of his feet to hold himself closer, but Theon doesn’t move.

“Aye, you’re not his heir, Snow. Just his favourite.”

Jon frowns. His father doesn’t have favourites. “I’m not —”

“Jon.” Theon’s voice is firm and quiet, and Jon feels it tingling from the base of his skull to his feet. “I can’t. You must know that.”

_Can’t_ had never crossed Jon’s mind. Jon had always thought the answer was _won’t._ Theon had always taken what he wanted. It was the way of ironborn. It was his house words. It never seemed difficult for him. The only explanation that made sense was that Theon didn’t want him. The idea that perhaps he does, after all, makes him lightheaded.

“You can,” he insists gravelly, “I’d let you. I want you to.”

“I know you do,” Theon smirks, “but you don’t rule this castle, do you?” 

That’s not fair, not when they’re this close. Jon could reach out and touch him, if he had the courage. He wants to — gods he wants to — but he’s afraid Theon will back away from him again.

“My father may be lord of this castle, but he does not rule over me.”

He means for it to sound confident and strong-willed, but Theon only laughs at him, an exasperated huff. “Of course he does, Snow, you —”

“No, shut up.” Theon’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t interrupt again. “It — it’s not up to him, you hear? I’m a man grown now. I can — I can do what I like, and there’s no law against it. No more than you and your whoring. Father would never take your head just for doing what I want of you.”

“Jon, your lord father is _not_ going to think that you —”

Furious, Jon topples forward, snatching handfuls of Theon’s cloak and yanking him down into a kiss. He expects Theon to shove him away, but instead Theon seizes his shoulders and pulls him forward, bodies pressed together, taking control of the kiss in a way that sweeps Jon into a lightheaded daze. He’s so practiced, hands on Jon’s face before he even realizes he’s moved, and Jon feels himself melt as Theon tilts his head back for him.

When Theon breaks the kiss to breathe, his eyes stay closed. He doesn’t move away, and Jon takes hold of his tunic in a gentle grip. Jon has him now, he knows he does. He may deny it, but Theon wants him. He must. Jon knows he must. He would push Jon away, if he didn’t.

“I won’t say a word to my father, Theon. No one will know. I promise you I — I won’t. Please, just — just this once.”

Theon doesn’t open his eyes, but he laughs, a nervous huff against Jon’s mouth.

“Aye, Kyra back in winter town told me that about two dozen fucks back,” he says in a low voice. His eyes open slowly, and for a moment Jon is in awe of how docile he seems. “Can never trust what any of you say before you’ve had my cock. Never stays the same once I’ve been inside you.”

It rocks Jon’s body to hear him say it, so close he can feel Theon’s breath against his face.

“Have — have you ever known me to break a promise, Greyjoy?”

“No, I haven’t,” Theon admits with a smirk. He’s holding Jon’s face as if he were a swooning maiden, but Jon can’t bring himself to pull away. “But I’ve never known you to use that pretty cock of yours, either.”

Jon’s blood vibrates under his skin. Theon wants him. He _wants_ him. “Theon…”

“It’s late, Snow,” Theon tells him gently, voice barely a whisper. “You should — you should get to bed.”

Without meaning to, Jon’s eyes flick over Theon’s shoulder, to his featherbed bathed in the light from the window.

“ _Snow._ ” Jon meets his eyes again, his heart pounding, and Theon’s gaze is like a storm. “Your — your own bed.”

Jon’s heart is in his throat. “Theon…”

He wants Theon to say that he wants him. He wants Theon to say that he would miss him, would Jon leave for the Wall. But he can’t ask it of him. He knows the answer, anyway. He doesn’t say anything for so long that Theon stops waiting, taking hold of Jon’s chin and tilting it up to meet his eyes.

“You didn’t hurt me, alright? Just… just go get some sleep.”

Nodding, Jon leaves to his own chambers. Feeling lighter, as he drifts off to sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is pretty short, but the last chapter is like, twenty pages. So hopefully it's okay that this one is so short! <3

Jon thinks, at first, that things between them will improve. Perhaps not much, but at least somewhat. If Theon were to just return to his barbs and rude jokes, it would be enough. Or, Jon lets himself pretend, Theon may start to treat Jon more as he does Robb; warm and kind and doting no matter who is looking. But he doesn’t. Instead he stays close to Robb and excludes Jon, like when they had been boys, and it stings so much Jon can hardly bear it. Passed over again. 

Not even half a fortnight has passed when Theon and Robb take mounts to winter town. They plan to spend the evening in the tavern with the visiting Umbers, and an invitation is not extended to Jon. Theon doesn’t even look at him when Jon hovers by the stables, hoping to be noticed while they ready their horses. Not even Robb spares him a word, but at least he has the excuse of excitement. Robb isn’t allowed to leave Winterfell without guards often. Father allowing him a night out alone with Theon and the other young men is a new and grand privilege. The honour of a young man.

Perhaps it’s why Theon doesn’t seem to notice Jon, either. Being alone with Robb must have a newness to him, as well. 

Jon tries not to think about it.

Late into the night, he’s holed up in his room thinking of little else when he hears the commotion below in the Great Hall. Voices clamour, men move about. A loud voice silences them. It sounds like Father, but furious. Jon can’t remember the last time his father has been angry enough to raise his voice, and he throws off his covers and slips out of his chambers, down the hall to see what the matter is.

Father is not alone. Jory Cassell and several other of the household guard are standing about, along with Lady Catelyn and several handmaids, clearly roused from bed. Vayon Poole stands with his daughters at the far end of the hall, seemingly called down from his own chambers due to the noise as Jon had been. Father does not seem to take notice of any of them. He too is not dressed as a lord, now. He’s dressed in a loose shirt and robe, as is Lady Catelyn and Vayon and his daughters. It’s strange, unsettling, to see the court dressed so casually, haphazard. Father’s eyes are hard as steel, trained on Theon and Robb, who stand before him with their shoulders hunched. Jory, the only one dressed for riding other than Robb or Theon, is standing over them, as if he’d been the one to collect them and bring them home in this state.

“Theon’s not to blame, Father. He didn’t start anything,” Robb offers meagrely. “It was Smalljon Umber who did. Theon was only —”

“Lord Greyjoy can speak in his own defense, Robb,” Lord Stark says tightly. Jon steps backward at the venom in his voice. “The last you need is to help him any further.”

Jon sees Theon flinch from where he stands, and finally gets a good look at him from the shadow of the door. The skin along Theon’s cheekbone is purpled with a bruise and there’s a bloodied scrape that breaks his eyebrow in two. Robb, Jon notices offhandedly as his brother drops his gaze to his feet, is bleeding from his bottom lip.

“I hadn’t meant any trouble, my lord.” Theon’s voice is unnaturally quiet, so soft Jon has to strain to hear him. “I was minding my own. Gave a wink to a tavern girl, is all.” Father lets out a gruff sigh, unimpressed, but Theon is still talking, staring at his boots. “Smalljon told her not come near me. Said — said my people are all rapers.”

Guilt pierces Jon’s heart as he pieces events together. Perhaps Smalljon Umber’s barb wouldn’t have felt so sharp if Jon hadn’t suggested such things not long ago. 

Sympathy crosses over Lord Stark’s face, but Theon’s eyes are downcast and he doesn’t see. 

Father’s look is tender only for a moment before it hardens. “And you consider it a wiser course to prove yourself a foolish tavern brawler instead?”

Theon flinches again. It’s strange to see him so humiliated. Normally, even Theon’s mistakes are made with a snide sort of confidence. 

“I apologize, my lord. I hadn’t — I hadn’t thought…”

“No,” Lord Stark interrupts, his voice hard, but quiet. He understands why Theon is hurt, but will not show him sympathy for his mistake. “You hadn’t.”

“Apologies again, my lord,” Theon starts quietly, but Ned shakes his head.

“I allow you charge of your own foolishness against my better judgement, Lord Greyjoy, and I have granted you all manner of freedoms in my home and land, but I will not stand for you dragging my son and heir into your reckless mistakes, do you understand me?”

Theon isn’t the only one to tense at that.

“Father, you can’t possibly think…” Robb stumbles to his defence, “I chose to intervene! I wasn’t going to let Umber insult the honor of my brother.”

“Lord Greyjoy is our ward,” Lord Stark warns sternly. “He does not bear your name or share your blood.” Jon’s eyes hold on Theon, who seems to shrink under the words. “House Umber has sworn fealty to the Starks for generations, and what you’ve done this night could have greatly damaged the alliance between our families. Do you understand that?”

“Father —”

“Stop.” Theon’s voice is so quiet that if not for the way Robb falls silent, Jon may not have realized he’d spoken at all. “I’m sorry, my lord,” he says, addressing Lord Stark a little louder. “With your permission, I’ll be dismissed to my chambers.”

Lord Stark sighs, but dismisses Theon with a wave of his hand. 

However, it’s Lady Stark who finally speaks. “It will not be the last we speak of this, but that will be the end of it for now. The hour is late. To bed, the both of you.”

Robb does not move, clearly not finished with what he has to say, but Theon bows and storms from the hall with a turn on his heel. He has no argument in him, and stares at his feet as he flees the Great Hall. 

Theon isn’t paying attention as he stomps toward his chambers, and barrels hard into Jon standing in the shadows of the door.

“ _Fuck,_ ” he snaps without seeing. His voice holds so much rage that Jon tumbles back onto the stone floor and watches as recognition dawns on Theon’s face. “Oh, fantastic. You saw it all too, did you, bastard? Feels good to know you’re no longer the most hated wretch in this fucking castle, doesn’t it?”

In the dim gold light of the torches lined up along the hall, it takes a moment for Jon to notice the tears brimming in Theon’s eyes. He’s never seen him cry, and gapes stupidly, at a loss.

“Get out of my way,” Theon growls.

He kicks at Jon still sprawled on the floor in front of him and storms away, but Jon hops to his feet and chases after him. “Theon, wait!”

“Fuck off,” Theon shouts over his shoulder.

He shouldn’t, he knows, he should just leave him be, but Jon races after him regardless. He’s never known Theon to cry before, he’s never seen him look so hurt. Jon can’t leave him to feel that all alone, not when Theon had taken care of him so many times. He keeps right at Theon’s heels, too close for Theon to shut his door to separate them once they reach his room.

“Wait, Theon, I’m — I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to overhear —”

“Oh, you and everyone else in this fucking wasteland,” Theon snarls. He shoves Jon to try and get him out of the doorway, but Jon flails for purchase, desperate to make it better. “Heard it all the way in fucking Bear Island, I’d reckon.”

“It wasn’t right, what Father said,” Jon insists hurriedly. “That you’re not… In front of everyone like that —”

“Fuck _off,_ Snow,” Theon shouts, shoving Jon hard enough that he reels back, stumbles, and lands on his hip. 

The door slams so loud it rocks the stone underneath him. Strangely panicked, Jon swallows a lump in his throat and gathers himself, quietly slipping into his own room before letting himself cry.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so... this is like a fourth of my document and it's all one very intense scene, so. Buckle up.

The next morning, Theon is quiet. He avoids Lord Stark and doesn’t talk to any of the children, not even Robb or Jon. He keeps his head down during chores, and when Robb tries to speak to him as he gathers water for Lord Stark’s washing, he shakes him off.

At midday, Jon resolves to sit next to him when they break bread in the family solar, but when he reaches the table, Theon isn’t there.

“Where’s — where’s Greyjoy?” Jon asks Robb, quietly, so that their father won’t hear.

Robb only shrugs. He looks sheepish, and glances at father before answering. “Said he wasn’t hungry. He was headed off toward the godswood, last I saw.” When Jon turns on his heel, Robb hisses after him, “Leave him alone, Jon,” but Jon ignores him and wanders out of the castle.

It doesn’t take long to find him in the godswood. Like Jon, Theon seems drawn to the heart tree for his solitude, though he boasts often of not being a superstitious lot like the Northerners, and even if he did find solace in religion, the old gods are not his. Jon had never really questioned it, before. Theon’s solitude was never to pout or cry as Jon’s had been. And it never before seemed out of fear of anyone, but it’s different now. Curled up at the base of the heart tree, Theon looks small, broken. Jon’s heart breaks for him as he creeps closer.

It isn’t uncommon to see Theon with bruises and scrapes. Aside from those he receives during drills and practices, he and Robb have tousled together since they were children, and with age they have only become rougher with one another. Jon has also seen him returning from winter town with bites and bruises on his neck, but he learned years ago that those were not the same kinds of marks. Theon has always liked those, and hadn’t much cared about the others. Now, though, with the lightly purpled skin along his cheekbone and the scabbing line that breaks his eyebrow, he seems shy. Embarrassed.

It’s hard to tell when he notices Jon, because he doesn’t sound at all surprised to know he’s there, once he speaks. “Is there something that you want from me, Snow?”

Shamed, Jon shakes his head.

“No? Is that right?” He doesn’t sound angry, only as if he wishes he were. Jon doesn’t meet his eyes. “I don’t know how much longer you can keep up that charade. I can never seem to get a moment’s peace without spotting you two paces behind me.”

Jon glances down at his feet. “I wanted — you seem…” There’s no word Jon can use that Theon won’t take offense to, so Jon trails off and shrugs. “Is there anything I can do?”

Scoffing, Theon kicks his heel out into the dirt. “I suppose leaving me be is out of the question for you, isn’t it?”

Shirking, Jon takes a step back. He’ll do that, if it’s what Theon wants, but the instant he moves, Theon tisks and turns away from him, frustrated. “Gods, Snow, are you ever _not_ crying?”

Jon isn’t crying at all, but Theon’s voice shakes, so he says nothing. Theon stays turned away from him, and Jon watches him in silence. Something about it is peaceful, though worry still pulls at Jon’s chest.

When Jon was young, Theon had always seemed as tall as his father and just as strong. Even as almost a man grown, Jon is nearly a full head shorter than Theon. It’s strange now, to stand next to him when he’s seated in the dirt like a child. Awkwardly, Jon clears the distance and kneels down beside him at the base of the heart tree, but Theon shuffles away from him.

“I certainly don’t need the pity of a bastard.”

Jon frowns. He doesn’t pity Theon. He’s only trying to say he understands, as Theon has tried to do for him, time and time again, whenever no one else is around. Theon doesn’t pity Jon, does he? He glances absently over his shoulder as if to make sure that his father or brother are not behind him. Theon went here to be alone, but these woods are not for him. The old gods are not his gods.

The thought sinks Jon’s heart further. Even in the times Jon has had nothing, he has felt safe in the godswood. Safe from scorn, safe from fear. Most of all, safe from Lady Catelyn. But Theon’s fear is for Lord Stark, and these are his woods. This is his land. Even if Theon were to take to the sept, Lady Catelyn would not take pity on him after what he’s done. There is nowhere Theon can feel safe, when he’s scared. Though Jon does not know particularly how it feels, the idea chokes him. All the times that Theon has been gentle to him for such silly things, and now there’s nothing Jon can do for him. He’s scared, and wounded, and he cannot speak to anyone about it. Not Robb, not Father, not even Jon.

It surprises Jon just as much as Theon, when he hefts up tall on his knees and throws his arms around Theon’s shoulders. Immediately, Theon stiffens, and tries to wriggle out of Jon’s grip.

“Quit it.”

“No.”

At that, Theon stills, and Jon tightens his hold. 

There’s tension in his throat, when Jon speaks. “I’m glad you’re here.”

When Theon laughs, it’s quiet and tight, as if it isn’t quite a laugh at all. “You’re an idiot, Snow.”

“I’m not,” Jon mumbles into his shoulder, “and I’m not the only one who thinks so. Robb, too.”

“Aye, for now, anyway, I suppose,” Theon grumbles. “But your lord father won’t allow me in his company much longer if I embarrass your family again.”

Jon shakes his head. “I do that, too,” he admits, finally pulling away. Theon isn’t looking at him, staring up at the spindly branches of the heart tree. “You’ll — you’ll never be a bigger embarrassment to the Starks than I am.”

Tisking, Theon shrugs him off. “You’ve got to quit telling yourself that, Snow. You’re not a boy anymore, sulking won’t make you trueborn. Just as honorable as any of them, you are. If you had the Stark name you’d be the envy of them all, even your bloody father.”

Jon sits back on his heels. He doesn’t have anything to say to that, but Theon meets his eyes, looking almost angry. “Don’t you be letting Lady Stark tell you you’re not…” The fresh rage leaves him in an instant, and he sighs. 

Silence settles between them, for a moment.

“That I’m not what?” Jon asks curiously.

“Forget it. It doesn’t matter,” Theon grumbles. “Just — get back to the castle, would you? It won’t do the two of us sulking out here alone. Your lord father will be worried I’ve gone and ruined your good reputation, as well.”

Jon doesn’t move, and Theon doesn’t repeat himself. Without looking over at Jon, he picks up a stick and starts to carve into the cold dirt.

“Theon?”

Theon still doesn’t look at him, but grunts, to show he’s listening.

“I don’t — I don’t care, what they think.”

A snort. Theon drops the stick and rolls his eyes skyward, as if expecting the heart tree to share in his exasperation. “Don’t be a fool.”

“I _don’t,_ ” Jon insists. “I don’t have — I don’t have a reputation to ruin. I’m just a bastard, anyway.” He shrugs, but it doesn’t matter. Theon is still glaring at the sky. “I’d rather… I want to stay with you. If that’s alright.”

With a huff that sounds thankfully close to a laugh, Theon drops his eyes back to his knees. He still hasn’t looked at Jon since mentioning Lady Catelyn. 

Scooting closer on his knees, Jon tries again, “Theon.”

Theon closes his eyes and rests back against the heart tree. He doesn’t grunt this time, only sighs, so Jon tries again, “Theon, look at me.”

“Why?” Theon grumbles, cracking an eye open to regard him coolly. 

The answer falls from his mouth the same way it had before, before he can think, before he can be embarrassed. “I like it when you look at me.”

Recognition passes over Theon’s face, and he tilts his head. “Jon…”

It’s meant, perhaps, to sound like a warning. But instead Theon’s voice is breathless, and cracks. Jon leans closer, encouraged. “I won’t tell them. I won’t — I won’t tell anyone. Please…”

“Drowned fuck.” 

Theon snatches the front of Jon’s doublet and rips him forward, letting him topple gracelessly into Theon’s chest as he claims his mouth. It’s so sudden that Jon forgets to close his eyes, and for just a moment he sees Theon’s face, brows knit as he sinks his teeth into Jon’s lip.

Jon’s heart is in his throat and he can’t speak, can’t breathe. He doesn’t even think he can move. Theon kisses him as if he’s wanted it as long as Jon has. He can’t have, Jon knows, he’d only been a child when he’d fallen for Theon Greyjoy. But Theon kisses him in a way that makes Jon forget that Theon does not love him. It must be how he kisses all the girls, for them to fall into bed with him again and again.

“I’m a — dead man for this,” Theon hisses against his mouth. It sounds as if he’ll stop, but he doesn’t, grabbing hold of Jon’s shoulders and pulling him closer. “They’ll mount my head outside the castle like they do in the south.”

Jon shakes his head, but he’s not really listening. His hands come up, though for a moment it feels as if they no longer belong to Jon at all. They clasp tight to Theon’s tunic as if he needs it to stay upright, and in the next instant Theon grabs him by the waist and slams him into the warm moss under the heart tree.

Theon pins his wrists to the moss, and Jon’s heart stops beating, sinking back into his chest. He’d not expected it to be here, now. He’d always pictured himself curled tight in Theon’s furs, pressed into his featherbed. Feeling Theon’s lips brush his throat while they lie out in the open feels like something dark and wrong. Anyone could find them here.

What’s worse, it’s the godswood. Anyone can find them here with the intent to pray to the gods — the gods watching them now. The heart tree’s hollow eyes stare unblinking as Theon tears his own tunic from his back. They must appreciate a sight like Theon, but Jon wraps his hands around his middle. He feels young and clumsy; unworthy of the gods’ attention. He wonders how the gods would see them. The old gods are not like the Seven. They are indifferent when two men lay together, but if they lay together in their holy grove, is it a sin, then? Or just another form of offering? A sound leaves Jon’s mouth at the thought, and Theon sits up to swallow it down.

“They’re watching us,” Jon whimpers against the kiss, dizzy and warm.

“Aye,” Theon whispers. His nails drag through Jon’s curls. “Give them a show, then.”

Fingers are untying his laces before Jon even has the presence to stop him. 

“My first was here as well, years ago now,” Theon murmurs against his mouth. It could be a lie, to get Jon to do what he wants, but it’s such a pointed lie that Jon falls still. “It’s quite something, to have an audience.”

The audience is not what thrills Jon. He thinks of Theon young and green with some lovely girl from town, tangling together, inexperienced and shy, lying just where they are lying now. He doesn’t know when Theon may have taken his first woman, but he can assume the look of him from memory, the unkept mop of hair he didn’t bother to cut or tie back for years, the sharp little grin and piercing eyes that haven’t changed. He’s always been taller than Jon, always stronger. Jon can’t wrap his mind around a Theon without confidence. 

Blindly, Jon reaches out and his nails dig hard into Theon’s bare shoulder. His skin feels different, feeling it with purpose. Theon hums, a soft, knowing sound, and Jon’s other hand runs down Theon’s chest. He recalls all the times in the springs, or watching Theon change — remembers stifling the urge to touch him. But he’s allowed now. Theon is letting him. Encouraging him, even, with gentle little laughs of breath against Jon’s mouth.

For a while, Theon just allows Jon’s hands to rove his chest and arms, but before long, Theon’s own hands reach for Jon. Gently at first, carefully. Tilting his head back, rolling fingers down his neck. Jon shivers. He’s never been touched with such direct intention before, so intimately. It’s daunting, and Jon bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself steady.

“You’re alright?” Theon asks softly. Jon nods, his breath shallow, but Theon’s eyes don’t leave his face. Jon is not a good liar. Theon grins, cupping Jon’s chin. “I know it’s a difficult thing for you, Snow, but if there’s any time for you to relax, it’d be now.”

He doesn’t like feeling mocked. Sour-faced, Jon says nothing, but it only inspires Theon to laugh again.

“C’mon, Snow. You may not do it much, but I’ve seen a smile on your face before.”

His eyes are alight, mirth painted on his face, and Jon can’t help but smile at him as he speaks. Theon grins at him then. “That’s it,” he says. “Looks good on you.”

Warmth sinks deep into Jon’s bones at that, and the smile on his face fades, if only because the compliment turns Jon’s insides to water. “I — Theon…” He’s not sure what he wants to say, but Theon only hums to show he’s listening at all. He doesn’t look at Jon, doesn’t say anything further. Only leans forward and places a kiss on Jon’s neck.

Jon squeaks, because the touch is soft, and spreads a syrupy feeling through his veins. Theon huffs a laugh against his skin and kisses him again. “Like that, do you?”

Despite himself, Jon nods. He doesn’t want it to stop, now that it’s started. Theon kisses down his neck, over and over until Jon is trembling underneath him. Nothing has felt like this, as if Jon is something to be cherished, something worth all this loving attention.

“Theon…” This time, Jon’s voice comes out a breathless whisper. He doesn’t mean to stop him now, doesn’t mean anything other the reverence of being touched this way. 

No one has ever made him feel this way before. He’s never been kissed along his neck, never held down by his wrists. Theon dotes on him in a way Jon didn’t think he’d ever experience. He’s never witnessed Theon this way. It makes him feel important; special.

Abruptly, Theon stops what he’s doing to root around his belt. Jon watches, blinking, as he pulls a little glass bottle into his hands with a huff. Jon doesn’t say anything, and Theon mumbles, “Have you got any flaxseed oil on you?”

Jon frowns, confused. It seems an entirely random question, and one he doubts he has the right answer to. He hadn’t brought any of his things with him when he left the castle. He shakes his head, and Theon groans.

“Bloody silver stag for this stuff, do you know that?”

Jon isn’t sure what it is. He’s not sure why Theon has stopped touching him to complain about the price of his things. Theon tends to pay quite a lot for all of his various trinkets. Jon wonders if perhaps he should show an interest in whatever it is and asks awkwardly, “What is that?”

Theon doesn’t seem to hear him, but when he pulls the stopper from the bottle, Jon recognizes the smell of it without an answer. It’s the almond oil he’s always dragging through his hair or adding in his baths. He boasts often about how easy it is to charm the girls with it. Jon’s not sure what he’s got it out for now. He can’t possibly think Jon needs to be charmed any further.

“What’re you doing?” Jon grumbles, sitting up to get a better look at Theon’s fidgeting. 

Theon glances up from his hands before shaking the little bottle again. “Unless you’ve got leather oil on you, this will have to do,” he says, grumpy. “Don’t go feeling too spoiled about it though when I’ve got no choice.”

“What do you mean? What’re you doing? You’re going to — that’ll make a mess on my clothes.”

He isn’t expecting the sharp, loud laugh that wracks through Theon’s body hard enough to stop what he’s doing. “Aye, well,” Theon says, still giggling when he meets Jon’s eyes. “Solve that problem well enough by stripping them off, wouldn’t you?”

Jon’s face burns at that. “I…”

Theon winks at him, still working the oil onto his fingers. “I hadn’t — quite planned for this, Snow. Would’ve been more prepared if this had been inside. But I’m not… I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Hurt me?” Jon tilts his head. At his confusion, Theon tenses, his shoulders pulling tight, and for an instant, his mouth quivers uncomfortably. Curious, Jon asks, “What is it?”

Theon doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t move, either. The last thing Jon wants is for Theon to change his mind. Frantic, he shuffles out of his tunic and wrestles out of his breeches, insecurity forgotten. 

“You won’t hurt me,” he insists when Theon stays quiet. “I know you wouldn’t.”

“Alright then, easy.” Replacing the stopper in his tiny glass bottle, Theon grabs for him to keep him still, and his hand is slick on Jon’s hip. “I won’t. I’m just making sure, alright? Makes a difference.”

Jon doesn’t understand what he means, but stays quiet. He doesn’t want Theon to change his mind. He watches Theon oil his hand in silence, and wonders. He jumps slightly, when Theon starts for him, but Theon shushes him like a spooked horse. “It’s alright, Snow. Just — lie flat. Alright?”

Jon does as he says, and heat pools in his chest when Theon follows after him, bowed over him. He’s never seen Theon this way, the way he’d wanted to — years ago — when he watched him with the redheaded scullery maid.

For a moment, neither of them speak. Jon’s heart is in his throat, and Theon’s chest is heaving. The look on his face seems almost frightened, and something tight pulls under Jon’s ribs. 

“Al — alright,” Theon says gently, “Just try — try to be still. And breathe.”

He’s never seemed so honest, and it takes Jon by surprise. It’s a moment before he nods. He’s not sure what to expect, but then he feels Theon’s slicked hand roll between his legs, and bites down on the instinct to gasp. His blood runs tight in his veins as Theon’s fingers ghost over his entrance, and his teeth sink into his cheek.

When Theon laughs, it comes out more like a wheeze. “I — I said to relax.”

“I am,” Jon lies, too quickly. A genuine smile breaks over Theon’s face. He’s beautiful, eyes bright and skin gleaming, and Jon’s mouth falls open. “Can I… can I touch you?”

Theon’s eyes go soft, but his smile widens. “If you promise to relax.”

Quick as a bolt of lightning, Jon’s hands are are everywhere. Cupping Theon’s face, tugging on his hair, running down his arms. The feel of Theon’s skin under his fingers is fire in his blood. He never wants to touch anything else. Only Theon, alive and hot and thrumming against him. He’s never felt allowed to be so blatant, to be so needy. His breath is coming out in shuddering gasps, unable to hold his breath any longer, and Theon leans closer, his face a breath from Jon’s own. 

Slowly, one of Theon’s oiled fingers sinks inside him, and Jon’s body pulls tight again. It’s strange and unfamiliar and abruptly, Jon twists, unsure of what he wants. His heart is pounding so hard in his chest that for a moment he’s afraid his ribs may crack, but then he hears Theon’s voice, a soft little whisper, “It’s alright.”

He seems so kind so suddenly that the panic evaporates in nearly an instant. Shivering, Jon takes a deep breath. As he lets his body fall slack, the pressure starts to lessen. He can’t meet Theon’s eyes suddenly, but he moves his hips, trying to adjust. The movement feels different. Better. Jon whimpers, curious, and without a word, Theon kisses him.

It burns through him like wine, and Jon’s hands latch onto Theon’s hair. When Jon tugs down, Theon moans into the kiss, and it makes Jon’s head spin. His heartbeat is thunder in Jon’s ears as Theon’s hand starts to move, and another finger slides into him.

It still feels strange, but better than it had at first, and Jon keens against Theon’s mouth. Theon’s touch is addictive, better than anything Jon’s known, and his mind reels so dangerously that Jon’s afraid to speak.

“Gods, you’re so — warm.” Theon’s voice is shivering in his ear. 

Jon sighs, and Theon’s teeth sink gently into his throat, barely there but firm enough to feel. It sparks a thrill up Jon’s spine, and he whimpers, surging up against Theon’s chest. 

“Want to hear — hear you say it,” Theon tells him, hands carding through Jon’s hair as he pulls away. “Tell me. Tell me you want it.”

Burning, Jon nods, hands scrambling to latch back in Theon’s hair. He knows, by now. This is just to tease him. He must know what Jon was thinking; must know he wants to keep quiet. “Want — want you to — to fuck me.” It lights up something in Theon, to hear him swear. He’s grinning down at him, and Jon’s mouth runs. “Please, Theon. Please fuck me.” 

Theon sags forward and lets out a heavy breath against Jon’s neck. The fingers of his free hand are long and delicate as they tilt Jon’s chin back. Jon can’t tell if it’s him shaking or if it’s Theon. He slides his eyes shut and melts into the touch, the hot stretch inside him. The feel of warm grass beneath his back and the wind brushing his skin. The way Theon’s hair feels like silk in his hand.

In a whisper not meant for him Jon hears, just loud enough, “Your father is going to kill me.”

“No,” Jon groans, the hand in Theon’s hair tightening hard. “I won’t let him. I’ll keep you — keep you safe.”

He feels Theon laugh against his jaw, lips pressing delicate as they trail back to his throat. “Aye,” he says gently, quicking his fingers in a way that turns Jon’s vision soft and grey. “You would, wouldn’t you? Smuggle me to White Harbor and run away with me, go live in the Free Cities, be my perfect little salt wife.”

The idea sings white-hot in Jon’s veins and he nods, squirming against Theon with a whine. “Yes,” he begs, “I would, yes, gods please —” 

Theon gasps, perhaps not expecting such an eager response, but Jon leaves behind no rights or titles, if he disappears. For Theon, he would be anything. Fingers of Theon’s free hand press under his chin and he meets Theon’s eyes, dark and warm and focused.

“Fool. You’ll be the death of both of us, at that rate.”

He says it honestly, without a smirk or a roll of his eyes. He says it like Jon beneath him now may be worth death. Trembling, Jon nods, though he’s not sure what he’s responding to. Theon has never seemed so serious. He must need some sort of answer.

Theon’s fingers shift inside him, and Jon can’t imagine anything feeling better than this. The songs and stories were never even close, to what this is. His eyes flutter shut, but the instant he does, he misses the sight of Theon and his eyes snap open again. Theon’s eyes are shining and wide, and Jon’s throat burns with the effort it takes to hold still and not cry out. Too quickly, Theon’s hand falls away from him, but before Jon can adjust to the feeling, Theon is talking.

“I’m — I’m going to turn you over,” Theon murmurs, voice low. “It’ll be better for you that way. Alright?”

Theon starts to guide him onto his knees, but Jon shakes his head, latching a hand into the grass. “No —” Theon freezes, but Jon only shakes his head again. “No, I want… Please let me — like this. I want to — I want to watch you. Please.”

With an exasperated huff, the tension melts from Theon’s back. “Jon,” he says softly, “I don’t want to hurt... It won’t feel as good, that way. Not when you’ve not done it before.”

“I don’t care,” Jon frowns, determined. His hand is still clenched in the grass. “I want to look at you.”

“Gods, you’re stubborn,” Theon sighs, but he’s smiling, and his fingers are running through Jon’s hair like he’s already given up the fight. “All that fucking Stark blood of yours.” 

Face hot, Jon swallows. If he looks away Theon may think he’s changed his mind. For a moment, Theon stares at him silently.

“Drowned fuck,” he grumbles finally, “Alright, just — here…” Glancing around, Theon’s eyes land on his cloak, and he snatches it from the grass and bundles it sloppily into his arms. Jon watches curiously, and Theon lifts his hips. “Put this…” He shoves the balled up furs against the base of Jon’s spine before pushing him down flat. “There, how’s that?”

He’s still bent close over Jon, pinning his wrists against the soft grass. Jon’s hips are tilted upward, pressed flush against Theon’s breeches. He’s hard, Jon can feel it against him. Letting out a long, heavy breath, Jon nods. “It’s — I like it.”

At that, Theon smiles. “I’ll bet so.”

“Did you — ever take that girl here? The — the one from…”

Jon’s not sure why the question leaves his mouth. He feels blood leave his face, but as Theon searches his expression, he seems only to be waiting for Jon to finish.

“Which one?”

“Never mind. I hadn’t —”

A smile twitches at the corner of Theon’s mouth. His hand is inside Jon again, warm and slick and gentle. This time, all Jon feels is pleasure from it. “The one you watched me with? Back from the last time the Night’s Watch came to stay?”

Too foolish to play dumb, Jon nods. A hot weight lands in his stomach at the way Theon’s eyes light up.

“No, Snow, I only took her to my bed that once. Why? Are you jealous of her?”

“I…” Should he be? He had been, at the time. But now, Theon is bowed over him, holding Jon in the same place he lost his own virtue, looking at him as if he’s made of gold. He shakes his head.

Theon tilts his head, disbelieving. “How long ago was that, Snow?”

Jon stays silent, too ashamed to admit he knows, that may even know the exact number of days it’s been. Theon crooks his fingers, and lightning sparks up Jon’s spine again, clouding his head with enough pleasure that he forgets to be embarrassed. “Two — two years.”

“Think of it often, do you?” Theon’s voice is husky as he leans forward, and twists his fingers again.

“Yes,” Jon admits, heart racing as his bones grow warm and heavy. “I — it felt good, watching you.” It feels good now, saying it, remembering the thrill of it while Theon is curled over him, inside of him. Theon’s eyes are wide and bright, as if it’s all he’s ever wanted to hear, and it makes Jon’s cock twitch. Jon babbles further, desperate for the look of him, for the warm pressure of his fingers. “Touched myself after. Thought — thought of —”

Theon’s fingers start to move hurriedly in and out of him, and Jon loses track of his words and breaks off to whine against the pleasure of it. It feels too good to think, and he squirms helplessly back against Theon’s hand. 

“Thought of me fucking you, instead?” Theon finishes curiously.

“ _Yes,_ ” leaves Jon’s mouth in a rush. “Yes — gods. Wanted — this...”

A loud, heavy exhale fans out over Jon’s throat and Theon’s voice is strained when he speaks again. “Put your — put your legs around me.” Jon scrambles to do as he’s asked, kicking his heels into Theon’s back. “There you are. That’s — that’s it.”

When his hand slips away this time, Jon keens, an unnaturally empty feeling settling in his hips. “No —”

“Shh, hush now,” Theon whispers against his jaw. The hand still pinning Jon’s wrist moves to lace their fingers together. “Look at me, Jon, that’s — that’s it. I need you to…” he trails off, but Jon whimpers. Whatever Theon needs, he wants to give it to him.

“I need you to breathe, alright? This isn’t — it’s not going to feel good, at first, but it… it will. I’ll make — I’ll make sure of it. Do you hear me? Just breathe.”

Taking a deep breath, Jon nods. Whatever it feels like, it’ll be better than the emptiness inside him now. The desperation is humiliating. The hand holding Jon’s squeezes tight, and Jon feels the head of Theon’s cock pressed against him. An odd sort of fear takes him over again, and he flings his hand out of Theon’s grip to snatch fistfuls of Theon’s hair.

“Theon —”

To his surprise, Theon pauses, looking at him tenderly. He’s pressed so close that Jon can feel him shivering with the effort to hold still. His breath is coming out sharp and heavy, and without meaning to, Jon thinks of how he must have looked while fighting at the Smoking Log, heaving, red-faced and furious. He would not have held back, then. The look on his face now is nothing like how it would have been. He looks so careful, now. It occurs to Jon that he looks lordly. Perhaps not lord of the Iron Islands — hard and callous and sharp — but a lord all the same, like Robb or his father. At the look of him, Jon wants to admit he’s scared, but he’s far more terrified that saying so would make Theon stop entirely. He doesn’t want that, as nervous as he is. He can feel himself shivering as he clings to Theon, and embarrassment starts to seep into him. He needs to say something, or Theon will pull away from him. But he can’t force his mouth to open.

“It’s alright,” Theon says after a moment, his voice so uncommonly gentle it doesn’t even sound like his own. “I’ve got you, it’s alright.”

With a surge of affection Jon hoists himself by Theon’s hair and claims his mouth, his own tears tinging the kiss with salt. There’s a brief touch of fingers against his cheek before the hand moves to hold his hip, gripping him steady as Theon finally pushes into him.

The stretch of it burns, too much, and Jon gasps against the kiss, moving away on instinct, but Theon’s other hand suddenly cradles the back of his head, holding him close. It’s so much at once that a sob leaves Jon’s mouth, but Theon swallows it down, shushing him gently.

“That’s it, Jon,” he whispers against his mouth, not even managing to break the kiss. “Gods, that’s — that’s it… Just breathe for me.”

Frantic, Jon does, panting against Theon’s mouth until he pulls away to rest his forehead on Jon’s. It helps, slightly, to fill his lungs. He breathes deeper, and Theon waits, for a moment, watching him.

“I’m going to — to keep going now, alright?”

Jon hadn’t realized he wasn’t fully inside him. Embarrassment mixes with panic and he clenches his eyes shut. It’s a mistake, and Theon doesn’t move at all, instead whispering, “Jon? Are you alright?”

“I —” Something deep inside him bursts to the surface and a helpless sob falls from his mouth.

“Drowned _fuck —_ ” Theon moves to pull away, but Jon wraps his legs tighter around his waist.

“No, no don’t. I want it,” he says in a rush. “Please — I — please...”

“Alright, shh.” Theon’s voice is tense, barely a whisper. How is he being so patient? He’s never seemed this way with any of the girls Jon has seen him charm. He’s never spoken of waiting or stopping in his stories of whores. Jon tries to meet his eyes, but he’s too close, and his face blurs together into a mass of colour. “Shh, you’re alright. Breathe, Jon.”

Hurriedly, Jon gasps, and Theon’s hands take hold of Jon’s hips again. His voice sounds incredibly tense when he whispers, “Keep breathing, alright?”

Jon nods, taking deep breaths as evenly as he can manage while Theon sinks into him, slow and heavy. Jon’s chest pulls tight at the pain, and he feels strands of Theon’s hair wrest loose in his hands as he struggles not to cry out. It hurts, but Theon had promised it would get better, that he would make sure, and he must know better than Jon would. Jon breathes deeply, waiting for the sting to fade. Tears are still burning his eyes, but he’s terrified to let them fall. He doesn’t want Theon to regret this. He doesn’t want Theon to stop.

It’s a moment before he realizes Theon isn’t moving. The burn dulls enough that Jon opens his eyes, curious to know if this is all there is. Theon’s shoulders are shaking, and Jon releases the hold he has on his hair. Jon’s heart is pounding, but with each heavy breath, the pain ebbs a little more. 

It’s strange and sudden, when he breathes in to the abrupt pleasure of it, pain almost entirely gone as his nerves start to tingle with something heady and deep.

“I — _oh…_ ”

A long sigh from over him, and Jon’s eyes flick back up to see Theon’s face. “Ah, there it is.”

It sounds doting, the way he murmurs it, and Jon feels his face turn pink. A grin spreads over Theon’s face, and Jon prepares for something snide and teasing, or something like what he’d told the serving girl the night Jon had watched him. _“Weren’t lying, were they?”_

But what leaves his mouth isn’t anything like that.

“Gods, look at you. Prettier than — than any girl I’ve had,” Theon hisses through his teeth. “Feel amazing, look — look at me.”

Head spinning, Jon struggles to find Theon’s eyes. When his eyes meet Theon’s, they’re darker than Jon has ever seen them. Roiling like a storm, and Jon can’t breathe. His lungs turn to stone in his chest. It shouldn’t burn under his skin the way it does, to be called pretty. It’s not something to call a man, but Theon’s voice is dragged tight, and Jon can only think of the redheaded serving girl, or of Ros. They had both been so lovely. Theon can’t possibly think Jon compares.

His vision swims, and he doesn’t realize there are tears in his eyes until Theon cups his cheek, smearing them over his face. 

“Look at me,” Theon whispers again, his voice gentler than Jon has ever heard it. When his eyes meet Jon’s, he looks panicked. “You’re alright?”

Embarrassed, Jon nods. He’d sworn to Theon that he wanted it like this, and now he’s weeping like a frightened maiden. He expects Theon to mock him, but instead he bows his head and presses a shuddering kiss to Jon’s forehead. At the movement, Jon feels Theon shift inside him — lighting him up from spine to scalp — and cries out, grasping helplessly at Theon’s hair. Theon freezes, but Jon shakes his head.

“Don’t — don’t stop —”

His voice comes out weak and mewling, and again Jon expects to be teased for it, but instead Theon groans against his throat and starts to thrust into him, slow and careful. The dirt and grass below the weirwood tree digs into his back as Theon’s cock stretches him wide, too wide to even breathe. It’s different, moving. The pain is gone now. All Jon feels is lightning buzzing under his skin, turning every little touch to pleasure.

Emboldened, Jon lets his nails sink into Theon’s scalp and says whatever words he can think to say, just to keep air in his lungs.

“Don’t stop,” he repeats mindlessly, clawing at Theon’s scalp. “Gods, don’t stop, I want — Theon, _please —_ ”

“Drowned fuck you’re a greedy thing,” Theon purrs against his ear. 

Jon’s body seizes as Theon snatches both his wrists and slams them back into the dirt. Heat pools in Jon’s gut and for just an instant, his eyes slide closed. He’d let himself picture this once, when he was young, but the memory pales in comparison to the feel of graceful fingers pinning his wrists, to Theon pushing into him. He keens, writhing and needy. He’s never felt so warm in his life.

When he hears Theon chuckle, soft and fond, Jon’s eyes snap back open. It’s different, from the look he’d had on his face when Jon watched him with the serving girl. Warm and open. Jon doesn’t think he’s ever seen Theon look at him that way. He’s never seen Theon look at anything that way.

“There’ll be no satisfying your — bloody sullen moods without my cock now, will there?”

The breath wrests from Jon’s lungs at the thought of Theon doing this again. He nods, helpless.

“Yes,” he whines, and Theon’s breathless laugh makes his bones feel light. “I mean I — no.” A laugh bursts sudden from Jon’s chest. “But mayhaps you’ll — you’ll have a better chance of it now.”

At that, Theon laughs again, a light, breathy sound. “Aye, might even get you to — smile eventually.”

Jon smiles at that, but Theon doesn’t see, bowing his head to nip at Jon’s throat until he moans. It’s overwhelming, the feel of him everywhere. A hand clenches in his hair to keep him still, elbow dug into the ground for purchase. His other hand wraps around his thigh, holding his hips upright as he starts to pick up speed. It’s hard to discern where Theon is and where he isn’t. The dewy ground at his back starting to feel like tongues dragging over his skin, as if somehow Theon is everywhere at once.

He opens his eyes without realizing he’s closed them, and sees Theon staring at him as if he hasn’t blinked. It turns his blood molten, and his heart starts to vibrate in his chest. Theon smiles suddenly, a smug little twitch of his lips, and Jon grasps at his hair, ripping him down into a kiss. This is better than the songs and stories. This is better than anything Jon has ever thought he wanted. He twists hard in Theon’s grip, trying to push back further against his cock, but the way Theon holds his hips still keeps him from getting enough. He whines against Theon’s mouth, desperate for something, but not sure what.

At the way he’s writhing, Theon huffs a laugh into his mouth. “I — I told you…” The breathlessness of his voice makes Jon’s head spin. “Here, hold — onto me.”

Jon is already clinging to him, but tightens his grip with a whimper.

With a quiet laugh, Theon drags Jon up to sit on his cock. Draped over Theon’s lap, light sparks in Jon’s eyes and he loses track of himself as he sinks down. A sound leaves his mouth, a lighter noise than he thinks he’s ever made before. This feels different. Deeper. Jon hadn’t expected this. He doesn’t expect Theon’s hands on his face, either, but Theon holds his jaw and stares at him, eyes dark as they search Jon’s.

“Snow, look at me. Is — is it too much?” Jon shakes his head, grasping at Theon’s hair, but Theon doesn’t seem convinced. “You’re — _fuck_ — you’re trembling. Jon.”

His eyes are dark, pinned to Jon’s face, and Jon thinks he may love him. “Theon,” he gasps finally, “Tell — talk to me. Please, I — want to — hear —”

He’s not even sure what he means, but something flashes over Theon’s face. If Jon were able to think he’d assume it were shock. Theon pulls him close, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“What do you want to hear, Snow?” he breathes against Jon’s ear. His hips start to roll forward, slow and deliberate, and Jon’s head falls back with a groan, barely held up by Theon’s hand resting against his neck. “How I thought — thought of you when we were boys? Teased you because I — wanted something I didn’t understand?” 

Jon’s heart jumps into his throat, but Theon continues. “Or perhaps of how I saw you, that — that night outside my room, while I fucked that serving girl? How I wanted you to see? Wanted you to watch me? I’d have lasted so much longer — before knowing you were there.” Jon keens, burrowing his face into Theon’s neck, but Theon grabs a handful of Jon’s hair and holds him still, mouth still pressed to his ear.

“Or do you want to — hear how this will be the — the end of me? How your father will have me executed for what I’ve done to his favourite son?”

Heat rocks through Jon’s body and his vision blinks white. He moans, shivering, and Theon laughs against his ear. 

“That’s — that’s it.” His hand wrenches tight in Jon’s hair, holding his head still so that Theon can keep his mouth where it is. “Gods, of course it is. Your father will have my head the moment he — finds out. No leading me to the execution block for last words and prayers to your — gods and the king. He’ll kill me where I stand.”

Jon is shaking, scrambling against Theon as he speaks. He’s dizzy. He can’t breathe.

“You’re not — you may not be his heir but he’s always loved you more than any of the ones born of his wife.” Jon’s eyes roll back, and Theon’s grip on him tightens. “You’re the one who looks every part a Stark, the — the one with all his perfect nobility and virtue.” Theon’s breath is heavy, loud in Jon’s ear as he speaks. It’s getting harder to hear everything he says. “All that — fucking Stark honor, and his filthy ward — soils it in a fucking instant.”

“ _Theon —_ ”

“Never fucked a whore,” Theon interrupts, starting to sound drunk. “Never fucked a single soul. Always so honorable. Until — until the Greyjoy ward gave you a smile. And that was all it took. And now you’re — you’re his perfect little salt wife, aren’t you?”

“I am,” Jon answers without thinking. Theon’s mouth roves over his neck, his tongue sliding out to taste the sweat in the curve of his throat. “I — I’ll be your salt wife. I’ll be — anything…”

“Drowned fuck, you’re a filthy thing, aren’t you, Snow?” He says it like something to be proud of, and Jon’s mind reels. “Should’ve known you’d — be the fucking death of me.”

“Am I — worth —” Jon’s heart is pounding, his whole body on fire. Somehow he still manages to find himself humiliated, too scared to finish his foolish question. Theon has pulled away from his ear, watching his face, and when Jon meets his eyes, his mouth falls open. Somehow, he’s shocked.

“Gods, Snow, you — you must know by now that you — are.” 

Tears burn Jon’s eyes, and he shakes his head, though he’s not sure even Theon understands why he’d do so.

“Wouldn’t fuck you, otherwise, would I? Gods, look at you, the way you — fucking keen for it.” Jon’s vision is fading. Hot tears slick down his face. He doesn’t blink, too afraid to. The way Theon is staring at him, he doesn’t want to miss a heartbeat. “Worth a thousand deaths, you are. And all you’ve — ever wanted is me, isn’t that right?”

Jon nods, his head spinning. He’ll never want anyone else, either, he knows. “Will you —” he starts to ask, but thinks better of it and grabs fistfuls of Theon’s hair, ripping him forward into a kiss. Theon groans, thrusting into him, and Jon feels his spine turn to water.

“Beg me,” Theon moans against his mouth. His hands are in Jon’s hair, his body writhing like a whip. “Beg me for it, tell me — what you want.”

The words light Jon on fire, but he’s getting everything he wants. Theon is looking at him as if there’s no one else in the world, holding him perched up on his lap so that Jon has to look down to meet his eyes. He couldn’t feel more powerful seated on the Iron Throne.

“I want — you to touch me,” Jon begs softly. His throat feels tight. “Please. Please just — just touch me.” 

The request seems to stagger Theon, even as he rolls his hands over Jon’s ribs and up his chest, resting them at the base of Jon’s neck. His hands are so soft and warm, and Jon can feel them shaking, as if he’s just as scared and green as Jon is. His eyes are wide, uncommonly surprised, and Jon’s breath shudders in his lungs. 

“Keep — keep talking,” Jon adds breathlessly. “Don’t look away from me, please, I just want —”

“Aye,” Theon whispers with a smirk, holding Jon’s face in both hands. “Don’t want for much, do you?”

It’s not true. Jon wants everything. Theon doesn’t seem to realize that he’s giving it to him. He shakes his head, opening his mouth to argue, but Theon rolls his thumb over Jon’s bottom lip, and he forgets to speak.

“Gods, but you’re pretty,” Theon whispers, as if he’s forgotten Jon wants to hear him talk — as if he isn’t speaking for Jon at all. “Want to fuck your pretty face next, watch you with your lips wrapped ‘round my cock.”

“ _Yes._ ” 

Theon must not have expected a response, because he jolts, shocked. His thumb slips past Jon’s lips and the thought of Theon’s cock in his mouth makes Jon suck it down on instinct, groaning at the way it presses against his tongue.

“You’d like that, would you?”

Dizzy, Jon nods, groaning around the flesh in his mouth. He wants it. He wants Theon to take him in every way possible. Needy from the thought, he starts to move, pushing himself over Theon’s cock. Thoughts fade and blur together. He just wants this. Only this. 

“Look at you,” Theon whispers reverently, “perhaps a whoreson after all, aren’t you, Snow? Fucking — natural at this.” Before Jon can decide if the sudden pang in his chest is from shame or pride, Theon purrs into his ear, “But no one else will know, will they? I’ve got you — all to myself.”

It makes Jon feel greedy, and he nods, reaching up to wrap his fingers around Theon’s wrist. He sucks hard on Theon’s thumb, and whimpers when he pulls it away. 

“Look at me, Jon, that’s it.” Jon doesn’t think he could look away if he wanted. Theon’s curls are matted to his forehead, eyes wide and lips shining, and Jon doesn’t think he’s ever looked more beautiful. “I’ve ruined you, haven’t I? You’ve no want for honor anymore, do you?”

Mindlessly, Jon shakes his head.

“No, of course not,” Theon whispers, pulling Jon to his mouth, groaning his words against Jon’s lips. Jon has never felt so powerful. It’s making him lightheaded. “All you want any longer is my cock. There’s no point in bringing your father honor — it won’t feel this good, will it?”

Arousal burns hot with humiliation and Jon can no longer tell the difference between the two. Nothing will ever feel this good. A hand knots in Jon’s hair and gives his head a firm shake.

“I want — say it for me,” Theon whispers, breathless. “Say — say it.”

“Won’t feel this good,” Jon recites helplessly, fingers clawing at Theon’s chest. “Noth — nothing will — nothing will ever feel this good.”

“I know.” Theon is smirking as he says it, but it slips a little, as Jon stares back at him. “Gods, you’ve always been such a quiet thing. Don’t think I’ll — ever get enough of you like this.”

A chill rolls through Jon, and Theon groans at the way it feels against his cock. “Your father may — may as well have my head now. Else I’ll just steal you away to the Islands with me.” Jon’s body jerks, and Theon has to hold him still, pushing him down against his cock as his hips slam forward. 

“Look at me, Jon.” Theon sounds as if he’s begging, but that doesn’t make sense. Theon wouldn’t beg him for anything. Jon finds his eyes again, noticing a sweaty lock of hair hanging down from his brow. Shaking, Jon’s fingers brush it away, meeting an uncommon darkness in Theon’s eyes. “That’s it. Want to — see you, when…”

He doesn’t finish speaking, but Jon feels strong fingers wrap suddenly around his cock, and his mouth falls open. 

A smile twitches over Theon’s face, honest and light. His hand is deft on Jon’s cock, softer and more skilled than his own. “The lord and lady always so — worried about me stealing their daughters away, or ruining their heir. Don’t seem to realize you’re the — prettiest wolf in the castle.”

Stars burst in Jon’s vision and he sags forward, coming hard into Theon’s hand. He groans, writhing along an edge of pleasure so sharp it feels almost like pain. It burns through his veins, boiling his blood, and his mouth falls open around a shout. Jon’s head is still swimming when Theon cries out, pitching forward and slamming Jon’s back against the grass. His hips pump without rhythm against Jon as he comes, heat spreading up from the base of Jon’s spine. His vision is spotty and it’s hard to breathe. His body feels somehow light as air and heavy as wet sand all at once. Theon is trembling overtop him until he drops hard onto his elbows, panting against Jon’s neck. 

The silence around them is warm, careful, broken only by their heavy panting, faces only inches from each other. The world is still spinning, an overload of colours and shapes, and Jon’s eyes slide shut as he catches his breath. He feels fingers wrap around his wrist, tugging his hand up from the moss to rest it against Theon’s face.

“Look at me, Jon.” His voice is still trembling. Jon opens his eyes, but his head is tilted back, facing the sky rather than Theon. “Jon — Jon, look at me, please.”

He’s never heard Theon say please. He’s in fact only heard Theon jeer at the prospect of such a word. Says it’s a curse to the ironborn, that it only shows weakness. But when Jon’s eyes meet Theon’s they’re wide and open, tinged with something close to fear, but nothing that looks of shame. He must not even realize what he’s said.

“Are you alright?” Theon asks gently. “Did I hurt you?”

Stunned, Jon shakes his head. He opens his mouth, but he can’t think of anything to say. Tension bleeds from Theon’s back. He smiles at him, and Jon feels heat flare up the nape of his neck.

“Good,” Theon tells him with a nervous sort of quirk to his smile. “Remember that, come tomorrow, would you?” 

He laughs, but Jon doesn’t understand why it’s funny and only tilts his head. 

Theon doesn’t explain. It must not truly matter. He would’ve felt teased and mocked, before, but he doesn’t now. He’s not sure if Theon’s smile lacks its usual bite, or if Jon simply doesn’t mind it now.

He feels different, now. Older. Smarter. The way Theon is looking at him, it’s as if he can see it, too. Perhaps he looks different, as well. Theon certainly does. More beautiful. Stronger. Jon remembers the way the world fell away, when Ros had dropped her robe from her shoulders. He feels it again now, looking at Theon, naked and leaning over him. 

“I want to stay here,” falls from Jon’s mouth.

“Oh?” Theon bows his head and kisses Jon’s neck, as if he loves him. “For how long?”

“Forever.”

Theon snorts, and nips teasingly at Jon’s ear. “Aye, fair enough, but we’ll freeze our cocks off, come winter.”

It’s such a gentle response for someone like Theon, even after Jon knows what he said was laughable to anyone. Theon doesn’t mock him for acting like a maid or push him away and tell him no. His mouth still plants kisses down Jon’s neck, as if forever is possible. As if Theon wants it, too. As if nothing else matters.

When he pulls out of him, Jon flinches, but Theon coos gently against his neck and tucks Jon up against him as he relaxes in the mossy grass. “You’re alright,” he whispers, lips soft against his throat, “you’re alright.”

It’s nothing like Jon would’ve thought, splayed over Theon’s lap the night of his nameday, pleading for Theon’s affection. With the way he is, even with Robb and the children, Jon never assumed Theon would be this tender and gentle. He wasn’t this way with the serving girl in his bed, or Arya’s redheaded nursemaid in the springs. He doesn’t speak of Ros as if he’s ever held her after. But here and now, Theon holds Jon to him so carefully it almost feels as if he’s rocking him, still murmuring softly into his skin.

“You’re alright, Jon. It’s alright.”

As much as Jon wants to look at him, he keeps his face tucked against Theon’s shoulder. Part of him is afraid that meeting his eyes may break the spell, and cause Theon to tease him. Though another part entirely is afraid that meeting his eyes would only make Jon say something he’s too ashamed to admit.

They lay that way for so long Jon starts to doze. He feels fingers toying with his hair and the wind blowing warm and soft against his face, and it’s as if there is no world outside of the one they’ve just created. Winterfell feels like a different life, something Jon may have dreamed up while lying tucked against Theon’s chest. Theon sits up on his elbows, and Jon wonders if he’s watching him. He keeps his eyes shut. For some reason, he doesn’t want to know.

As the pleasure settles in Jon’s bones and fades away, it starts to make room for other thoughts. Ones Jon doesn’t want to have. Now that they’ve laid together, what will happen? Will Theon lose interest in him, now that he’s had him? Theon has favourite whores, but he rarely revisits the beds of girls whose pleasures he can get for free. Jon would not be any different, far less practiced than even the tavern wenches who Theon has bedded. He’d told him once that he prefers a seasoned bedmate, and that is not Jon. As he lies in the grass, listening to Theon breathe, Jon wonders if he even wants to be different. The things Theon had said were exciting while his blood churned raw and wild, but the idea of fleeing Winterfell to live in the Free Cities weighs on Jon’s shoulders now. Worse than the Free Cities is the Iron Islands. He is not built for the cruelty of Theon’s land, Theon himself has said as much. Even if he were capable of living in such a dark and brittle place, he’s not sure he has the strength to leave his family.

At the thought of family, Jon remembers the other things Theon had said. His natural talent for what they’ve done being something he inherited from a mother he’s never known. He may know nothing of her, but he refuses to believe the woman that made his good and noble father forget his honor was someone as base as a common whore. The thought reaches its boiling point, and Jon twists in Theon’s hold to slap him across the face.

“Ow!” Theon rears back, blinking confusedly. “That bad, was it?”

The instant he asks, Jon feels ridiculous. He frowns, trying to hide his embarrassment with anger. “My — my mother isn’t a whore.”

It doesn’t work. Theon cackles, his head falling back on his shoulders. The sound flutters something hot in Jon’s stomach, but he holds his glare. He’s still frowning when Theon’s laugh dies down and he looks back at Jon’s face.

“Oh, aye, I hadn’t meant that,” he says cheerfully. Jon pouts, not understanding, but Theon leans down and kisses his ear. “Sometimes words just come out, when you’re… I hadn’t meant it.”

When Jon doesn’t react, Theon adds, “You seemed to like it, at the time, Snow.” It’s embarrassing, that Jon can’t deny it. He swallows, shy, and Theon’s breath ghosts over his jaw. “I’m sorry, if you didn’t. I hadn’t meant to upset you.”

It’s another thing Jon has never heard him say. Sorry. It takes him by surprise, and he’s struck dumb. After a moment, he nods. This is different from the Theon who held his hand as he walked him back to Winterfell. Different from the Theon Jon saw with a woman through the crack in his door. This is different, even, than the Theon who kissed him on his nameday. This Theon is someone else. Someone who isn’t smirking or teasing, even the friendly way he does with Robb or the little ones. Jon wonders if perhaps this Theon may not disappear when in the presence of others, that maybe the smile on his face now would stay, even if someone else could see it. 

The thought fizzles as soon as it finishes in Jon’s mind. Theon is still Theon, even now, and the moment they go back to Winterfell, he’ll be the same Theon he was when he pulled him fully clothed into the hotspring and laughed when he crawled out. He’ll be the same Theon who ran from him days ago, who told him to stay away. Jon feels his throat constrict at the thought. He’s not sure he can handle that now, not after what they’ve done. Perhaps it was a mistake after all, that they do this. 

He’s sure he never wants to leave the godswood now. Here, Theon is his.

As if reading his mind, Theon starts to kiss down his throat. Jon’s eyes slide shut, melting into it. The touch is addicting, and in this moment Theon _wants_ him. Teeth nip into Jon’s throat, a gentle claim, and Jon whimpers. At the sound, Theon gasps, taking hold of Jon’s hand and pressing it back against the moss underneath him. 

“We can’t — stay forever, but…”

Unlike before, Theon’s voice trails off and he falls silent. Jon opens his mouth, but before he even thinks of anything to say, Theon presses his mouth to Jon’s throat and hisses, “ _Shh._ ”

Head falling back against the crunching leaves among the moss, Jon looks over to see his summer cloak still splayed among the dirt, crumpled and wrinkled from their earlier twisting. Automatically, Jon reaches for it, though the soft grass underneath them is enough that it doesn’t seem necessary. Red leaves are cracked and shredded into the fur. It’ll take ages to brush it out.

Theon feels Jon move away from him and looks up to follow his attention. When he spots the cloak, he smirks.

“Are you cold, Snow?”

Jon shakes his head. He doesn’t think he’ll ever feel cold again.

“Aye,” Theon says, reaching forward and snatching the cloak out of the dirt and pulling it close before leaning down to kiss his neck again. “Good.”

Theon tries to roll him onto his hands and knees, onto the cloak. He must assume that now that they’ve been face-to-face he can do as he likes. But Jon hasn’t had his fill of the way Theon looks at him. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to turn his back on the sight of him, not now. He wants to see everything. Without a word, Jon twists out of Theon’s grip and pins him back against the moss, bracketing Theon’s hips with his knees. He moves so quickly that he only realizes what he’s done after he’s done it, with Theon staring up at him with wide eyes and a slack jaw.

Shy, Jon freezes like a frightened rabbit. He’s made a mistake now, and Theon will shove him away and leave him alone in the godswood. Again. But before Jon can pull away in shame, a smile tugs at the corner of Theon’s mouth.

It’s sly and knowing, and Jon expects their silence to come undone with some mouthy comment that Theon can’t help himself from muttering. Instead, he only reaches up to twine his fingers in Jon’s hair, and tugs him down, giving him a soft, chaste kiss. It’s so unlike him that Jon wonders for a moment if perhaps he’s dreaming. It’s possible that he nodded off while lying in the sun with Theon moments ago, and now this isn’t happening.

When Theon drops back from the kiss, he’s still smiling, and Jon opens his mouth, not wanting to break the spell between them, but too confused not to.

“Shh,” Theon says again, as if reading his mind, and drops a hand on Jon’s naked hip. 

Jon blinks, curious, and Theon starts to rock Jon against him, slow and careful as a waning tide. Instructing him with his touch to roll his hips, push up on his knees. It sparks against Jon’s skin like the catch of flint, and a quiet groan falls from his mouth. Theon is watching him intently, his only sound the heavy breaths he releases through clenched teeth. Jon can feel Theon’s cock stirring underneath him and whimpers, his heart picking up speed in his chest. Impatient, Jon ruts against Theon’s lap.

The look in Theon’s eyes makes Jon dizzy. The silence between them is heavy, almost its own presence, and Jon feels as if he’s made of gold. Squirming in Theon’s lap, Jon remembers what Theon had whispered to him before, about wanting to see Jon’s mouth around his cock. Jon wants it still. He wants it now, watching Theon’s eyes turn glassy as Jon writhes into him. 

Mind foggy, Jon slides from Theon’s lap. Jon wants to give him everything. Theon blinks, curious, and when Jon leans forward to take his cock in his mouth, Theon grabs his chin and holds his face. He shakes his head, and Jon’s heart stops.

The dejection must show on his face, because the quiet around them shatters when Theon finally speaks.

“I admire your determination, Snow,” Theon whispers, still vying for silence, “but I — I should probably show you… how it’s done. Alright?”

Jon’s mouth falls open, but he doesn’t answer. He hadn’t expected Theon to speak after so long in silence, and can’t formulate a response before Theon chuckles. 

Leaning forward to press a kiss on Jon’s slack mouth, he whispers teasingly, “Just lie back, Snow.” 

“You — you said you wanted —”

“Aye, I know what I said,” Theon purrs against his jaw, pressing Jon down against the grass. “But it’s no use if you don’t know how. Just want to show you first, is all.”

The grass is soft on Jon’s back, starting to cool in the late afternoon air. Theon presses into him, kissing along his neck, and Jon’s skin turns to gooseflesh under Theon’s touch. Theon’s lips are soft on his skin as they trail downward. Jon’s spine is rigid as Theon slinks downward. He’s not sure what to expect. His eyes are shut so tightly that colours splash along the insides of his eyelids. When he whimpers, he expects for Theon to hush him again, but he hasn’t seemed to have heard.

He’s pulled so taunt that when Theon’s tongue flicks out along Jon’s hipbone, he yelps and latches onto a fistful of Theon’s hair. Heat races up Jon’s spine at the feel of Theon’s breath ghosting over his skin, his quiet laugh nearly lost in how loudly Jon is panting. The cool touch of Theon’s breath against his skin is driving him mad, and his hand clenches hard in Theon’s hair.

Jon opens his mouth to speak, but before he can think of anything to say, his eyes meet Theon’s, and his jaw snaps shut. 

For a moment, Theon’s expression is open and tender, but then the corner of his mouth quirks into a smirk and he says hoarsely, “Pay attention now, Snow.”

There’s a cutting response on the tip of Jon’s tongue in one instant, and in the next, Theon’s mouth is around his cock, and all that leaves him is a heady gasp. It’s different, from before. Wet and warm and tight, like clinging hot silk. Nothing has ever felt like this. Nothing he’s done on his own. Nothing he’s dreamed of. His nerves are on fire, his mind blank, and his other hand grabs onto Theon’s hair to pull him closer. Theon goes easily, but Jon feels a hand at his hip press him down flat into the moss when he tries to move. Theon’s throat works against his cock and Jon’s eyes roll back. For several seconds, all he feels is the sharp sing of pleasure in his veins.

Jon’s eyes refocus and catch sight of Theon between his legs. His eyes are closed, lashes long and dark against his cheek, propped with his elbow against the grass and his other hand against Jon’s hip. He’s beautiful, and perfect, and Jon is in love. Mindlessly, he releases a handful of Theon’s hair to reach for the fingers curled over his hip. Without looking at him, Theon takes hold of it, and Jon feels a silent sob burst from his mouth.

“Th — Theon —”

It’s all he manages to say before he comes, falling back into the grass with a watery sigh. Theon doesn’t pull away as quickly as Jon might have thought. Instead he waits until Jon is trembling before he sits back on his heels and spits the seed into the grass.

“Gods, that was quick.”

Embarrassed, Jon’s cheeks peel bright red. He tries to hide his face in his hands, but Theon only chuckles and pulls his arm away. 

“Hush now, you’re alright,” Theon tells him gently, eyes bright. His teasing isn’t the same, now. Softer. Good-natured. “I might take a bit more than that, on your turn. Then again, perhaps not, with a mouth like yours. We’ll have to see.”

He winks, smirking, and Jon clamors to sit up. He wraps around Theon like a vine and takes his mouth into a kiss. The bitter taste of it makes Jon flinch, but his grip clings tight onto Theon’s face and holds him close. Theon doesn’t try to pull away from him. Jon had been wrong to assume Theon doesn’t enjoy kissing. When he finally pulls back for air, Theon smirks at him.

“I’ve — made you spill twice now in an hour and you’re still trembling like a leaf when I kiss you? You really _are_ like a maid, aren’t you, Snow?”

Shy, Jon says nothing. He doesn’t remember shivering like this when Ros had kissed him. He thinks perhaps it is just Theon, who gives him chills this way. But he’s too afraid to say so, and Theon doesn’t seem to care for an answer. He rolls his thumb along Jon’s lip, distracted, and Jon watches his eyes. They are darker, distant, and Jon finds it hard to look away from him.

“We — we should head back to the castle,” Theon says finally.

“No.” Jon shakes his head. 

Theon seems to find his stoicism amusing, and chuckles. He runs his fingers through Jon’s hair, smirking when red leaves come away in his hand. “The Starks will begin to wonder where we’ve gone,” he says. “There will be no explaining if a search party finds us this way.”

Jon’s not sure why the idea of running away suddenly entices him again. He never wants to return to the castle. The home neither of them belong in, where Theon is trapped and Jon is alone. Where Theon ignores him whenever others can see. Abruptly, Jon hates Winterfell. He can’t go back now. Perhaps if they run for White Harbor, Theon will always look at him the way he’s looking at him now.

“Jon.” Theon presses a kiss to his throat, and Jon swallows to stifle a whimper. “We need to start back.”

At first, Jon thinks if he stays silent that they’ll stay here until dusk. He says nothing, hopeful, but Theon does not wait for a response this time. Instead, he sits up again, and Jon watches miserably as he dresses himself. The more layers Theon pulls on, the less he looks like Jon’s. With his breeches and his tunic on, he’s the same Theon he’s always been. The one who doesn’t even notice when Jon’s there, who seems enamored with his brother, and any girl to look his way.

“Jon…” When Jon looks up, however, Theon is still looking at him as he did before, eyes wide and warm. “C’mon now, Snow. It’ll get too cold to sit in the grass naked like that much longer.”

Jon wants to argue, but Theon doesn’t let him, finding Jon’s tunic at his knees and pulling it over his head. Startled, Jon doesn’t stop him, and heat pools in his chest as Theon helps him to his feet and all but dresses Jon himself. 

“There you are,” Theon mumbles, straightening Jon’s soft summer cloak on his shoulders, brushing leaves and dirt from the fur. There’s still shreds of red ground into the cloak, but less noticeable now. Perhaps once in the castle walls, anyone who sees will think he fell into the dirt, or napped under the weirwood.

Jon doesn’t say anything. He’s afraid to break the spell. If he speaks, perhaps Theon will remember he doesn’t love Jon after all. Jon is already standing, but as Theon turns to lead them out of the godswood, he reaches back and takes Jon’s hand. As they walk, Jon stays silent, staring at the way Theon’s fingers are wrapped around his palm.

He doesn’t drop Jon’s hand when they reach the gate. Jon looks up at the gate and then back at their hands before looking up at Theon.

“Theon…” He’s not sure what it is he wants to say, but the moment he speaks Theon drops his hand, and all that comes out is, “wait —”

“I don’t want to, either,” Theon admits, as if Jon said something else entirely. He picks a stray leaf from Jon’s fur collar. “But we have a duty to this castle, the both of us.” 

They shared a moment like this years ago, though it had been different, then. It isn’t like Theon to mention the roles of duty and honor. His face goes pink at the way Theon smiles at him. He opens his mouth to ask if Theon remembers standing outside this gate back when they were children. He must, the way he’s grinning now. But then, Theon had not referred to Winterfell as their duty. Then, it had only been where they slept — unfair and miserable though it was. 

Now seems different. Not just for what they’ve done, or the way Theon is smiling at him, but for what he said, as well. Theon does not belong in this castle — less so even than Jon does — but he seems more than the resigned teenage boy he had been. It seems almost as if he’s made peace with where he lives. Jon wonders if perhaps what they’d done in the woods had anything to do with this revelation. Foolishly, he wants to ask. Perhaps Theon takes as much comfort in Jon’s presence as Jon does in his. The idea warms his bones, and Jon smiles at him.

“Ah,” Theon grins, “See? Knew you could smile.”

He sounds so confident that Jon’s smile falls abruptly into a glare, and Theon laughs. Before Jon can speak, Theon presses a kiss to his forehead, chaste and tender.

“Come now, don’t look so forlorn, Snow.” Jon swallows, his heart quick under his ribs, and Theon brushes the hair from his face. “The godswood will always be there.”

It isn’t Winterfell, and it isn’t out of duty. Jon feels heat burn at the back of his neck. The godswood, he realizes, is theirs. When he looks up at Theon, he notices he feels lighter. Safer, somehow. He nods, just once, and Theon smiles at him. As they walk through the gate, Theon presses his hand to Jon’s back.

**Author's Note:**

> title from "There's Hope Yet" by Raised by Swans


End file.
